"What pain?" asked John, suddenly, alive to any suffering of hers.
Miss March smiled almost like her old smile. "Oh! I had nearly forgotten it, though it was very bad at the time; only that I cut my wrist rather dangerously with a bread knife, in a struggle with my nurse."
"When was that?" eagerly inquired John.
For me, I said nothing. Already I guessed all. Alas! the tide of fate was running strong against my poor David. What could I do but stand aside and watch?
"When was it? Let me see—five, six years ago. But, indeed, 'tis nothing."
"Not exactly 'nothing.' Do tell me!"
And John stood, listening for her words, counting them even, as one would count, drop by drop, a vial of joy which is nearly empty, yet Time's remorseless hand still keeps on, pouring, pouring.
"Well, if you must know it, it was one of my naughtinesses—I was very naughty as a child. They would not let me have a piece of bread that I wanted to give away to a poor lad."
"Who stood opposite—under an alley—in the rain?—was it not so?"
"How could you know? But he looked so hungry; I was so sorry for him."