"My child—from my arms?" repeated Margaret, groping for her meaning. "Why,—"
"Rosalie, you have talked enough now," said Mrs. Pennybacker, kindly. "You are worn out."
"One moment," Margaret interrupted. Then dropping to her knees beside the sick girl she took her hand, saying solemnly, "Be at peace! I promise by the love I bear my own child that I will be a mother to yours. From this day he shall bear his father's name."
"Oh, madam!"
Mr. De Jarnette broke the silence that fell on them then.
"There is no need that this should ever be known outside of ourselves. To the world Victor De Jarnette died by accident. So let it rest."
When Rosalie spoke again it was only to murmur as if to herself, "I did not know—the world had people in it—like this!"
To Mrs. Pennybacker, who bent over her with a reviving draught, she said as simply as a child would say it, "Do you think God will forgive me now?"
"'Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him,'" was the instant answer. "'He knoweth our frame; He remembereth that we are dust.'"
To Margaret it was an assurance of infinite compassion.