Beyond him, in the range of her vision, was the window looking toward the garden, and between the bushes of lilac and guelder-roses, Patty had a swift vision of a tall woman, robed in black, a thin white face, looking eagerly into the cheerful farm-kitchen.
She leaped to her feet. But the vision had faded; only the wind swept the wet lilac boughs against the pane, only the guelder-roses looked like tall, dark, draped forms in the stormy night.
"What is it?" said Mark, as she started.
"Nothing," said the wife; "little Mattie sleeps; I must carry her up to bed." She chided herself for her fancies.
"Nothing!" said Mark. "I have become nervous and womanish with my misery. Do you know, Patty, even now I keep looking for some one or something to come and save me."
"It is never too late," said Patty. "Heaven could save you now—save you even by so frail a thing as this baby child."
She passed to the upper room, and left Mark still in his misery hastily retracing his past, in gloomy thought. Patty returned and stood wistfully, her hand on his arm.
"Don't despond, Mark. We are young, strong, loving. We will give honest work for honest bread."
"It is not right for the innocent to perish with the guilty," cried Mark, vehemently; "for you and baby Mattie to perish with me."
"You are not perishing, and how have you been guilty."