“Oh, Mr. Jackson, do you ask me? In the hope that you might see something in my innocent child to soften your heart towards me. Not only towards me, but towards my husband.”
He suddenly turned about, and walked to the opposite end of the room. He came back again with a slower step, and resumed his former attitude, saying:
“I thought you had emigrated to America?”
“We did. But life went ill with us there, and we came back.”
“Do you live in this town?”
“Yes. I am a daily teacher of music here. My husband is a book-keeper.”
“Are you—forgive my asking—poor?”
“We earn enough for our wants. That is not our distress. My husband is very, very ill of a lingering disorder. He will never recover—”
“You check yourself. If it is for want of the encouraging word you spoke of, take it from me. I cannot forget the old time, Beatrice.”
“God bless you!” she replied with a burst of tears, and gave him her trembling hand.