"Oh, mother—mother!"
And then Heaven was merciful to me, too—a dark shadow seemed to fall over me, and I remember no more.
When I awoke I was in my own room and the sun was shining—the birds singing. Emma sat by me. Two days and two nights had passed since my mother died.
I saw her once again. She had grown more beautiful even in death; loving hands had laid white flowers on her breast and on her hands—a sweet smile was on her lips.
The rector stood there with me.
"She has been murdered," I said; "that is the right word—murdered."
"Yes," he replied, "murdered! But she is among the angels of heaven. Laura, loving hands have placed these flowers on your mother's silent heart; do you know, dear child, what I should like you to place in her coffin? The sweetest flower that grows."
"No; I do not know."
"The flower of divine forgiveness. I know, although you have never told me, what hot, bitter hate swells in your heart against the woman who incited your father to this sin, and even against your father himself. I do not know if we can add to the happiness of the dead; but if it be so, lay your hand on your mother's heart and say so."
After a long time I did it. I forgave them. If I meet and can talk to my mother in Heaven I will tell her why.