“Or even looking at his poor little grand-daughter—”
“The sight of her must have blasted him, as that of the Medusa’s head was said to blast those who dared to look upon it,” again burst forth Elverton.
“He hastened from the house, which he has never entered since.”
“For he had better walk on red-hot plough-shares than tread the paving-stones of those halls!” exclaimed Elverton, fiercely.
Then, after a few minutes’ silence, he inquired:
“What have you heard of him since?”
“Nothing, my father, except this significant fact, that, within one fortnight after his fatal visit, his nut-brown hair turned as white as snow!”
“No doubt, no doubt, but will his scarlet sin ever be so white?—can time or sorrow or repentance bleach that?” muttered Elverton, speaking rather to himself than to his daughter.
Alma did not at once reply; a feeling of deep humiliation kept her silent for awhile, and then a sense of religious duty urged her at last to say:
“I know not of what sin you speak, my father: but this I have—Scripture warrant for believing that, though the sin be ‘as scarlet,’ it may be made, by repentance, as ‘white as snow.’”