Agnes Sylvestre laid a hand on her again without speaking.
"I suppose I was bad in those days," Bertha continued. "I did not feel as if I was—though I dare say that only makes it worse. I deliberately let myself be happy. I let him be kind to me. I tried to amuse and please him. Janey got well, and the days were beautiful. I did all he wished me to do, and he was as good to me as he was to Janey. When you spoke of his being so gentle it brought everything back to me in a rush,—his voice, and his look, and his touch. There are so many people who, when they touch you, seem to take something from you; he always seemed to give you something,—protection, and sympathy, and generous help. He had none of the gallant tricks of other men, and he was often a little shy and restrained, but the night he held my hand in both his, and the moment he touched my shoulder, when I broke down so at the gate, I could not forget if I tried."
"But, perhaps," said Agnes, sadly, "you had better try."
Bertha looked up at her.
"When I have tried for a whole year," she said, "I will tell you what success I have had."
"Oh!" Agnes cried, desperately, "it will take more than a year."
"I have thought it might," said Bertha; "perhaps it may take even two."
The fire gave a fitful leap of flame, and she turned to look at it.
"The fire is going out," she said, "and I have almost finished. Do you care to hear the rest? You have been very patient to listen so long."
"Go on," Agnes said.