The door opened and the apothecary stumbled over her.
"Miss Bendigo—" he began in compassion, then some words to which the Squire had just given vent flashed back at him and he hesitated.
"Bring her in," ordered the patient hoarsely.
Sophie scrambled to her feet and went towards the bed. She fell on her knees beside it.
"Oh, sir, forgive me, I didn't know, I didn't know," she babbled, "send me where you will, only forgive me and get well . . . I'll never see or hear from or write to him more, if you'll but forgive me, I shall be happy. Papa, papa!"
Over Sophie's head the Squire beckoned the apothecary into the room. Then:
"I do forgive thee," he murmured, speaking with difficulty and veiling his eyes with his thin wrinkled lids, "but thou should'st have remembered I am your father. As for the villain Crandon, hadst thou loved me thou wouldst curse him and the ground he walks on."
"Oh, sir," said Sophie, to whom the words of pardon alone had penetrated, "your kindness strikes at my soul. Sir, on my knees I pray you will not curse me."
"I curse thee!" gasped the Squire, forcing his distorted mouth into a semblance of the old bland smile, "no, child, I bless thee and hope God will bless thee, and I pray thou mayest live to repent and amend. . . . Leave me, lest thou should'st say something to thy prejudice—" apparently, thought the apothecary, who was himself trembling with horror, this martyred father had forgotten the presence of a listener. "Go to the clergyman, Mr. Le Petyt, he will take care of thee. Alas, poor man, I am sorry for him. . . ."
"Papa, I am innocent, I swear to you I am. I never knew. I am innocent of this. . . ."