"I know, my dear," said the Rector, smoothing her hair.
"And Maurice, the darling, I was so wicked I would not look at him ... and as for Armand, I believe I almost hated him ... and I told him he was dead to me ... and now he is dead really ... and how can I say I loved him!"
The Rector reflected a little before replying.
"I would not think too much, Horatia, of whether you loved him or did not love him. I understand that you are trying to be honest with yourself, but now you have told me do not fret about that part of it. You made mistakes, and it is all very sad, but try to remember that we are in the hands of a merciful Creator. 'He knoweth whereof we are made; He remembereth that we are but dust."
"If only I could be like you, Papa, and could have your trust! It frightens me to think about him."
"Tell me, my dear."
"O, he did not want to die. He was so young, and he loved life. He said one thing that I shall never forget: 'If they tell you that I was resigned, do not believe them.'"
"Poor boy, poor boy!" murmured the Rector huskily.
"And the way he died was so dreadful! I had never seen anyone die before, and I did not know how awful it could be. O, I have been so frightened!" said Horatia, now almost incoherent. "I see him always with the blood spreading through the linen, and I hear him always calling in that terrible voice, 'Laurence, Laurence! ..."
"Ah!" said the Rector, compressing his lips. He made an effort to control himself. "Don't go on, Horatia; don't distress yourself! I know all about it. We must try not to judge the dead—and may God have mercy on us all!"