“I have told it, my lady.”
“And you are keeping nothing back?”
“Nothing.”
The thin hand crept out and grasped the nurse's wrist.
“Then you are sure your brother does not despise me, Martha?”
“MY LADY! How can you say such a thing!” exclaimed Martha, dropping the comb.
“Well, everybody else does—everybody I know—and a great many I never saw and who never saw me. And now about yourself—and you must tell me frankly—do you hate me, Martha?”
“Hate you, you poor Lamb”—tears were now choking her—“you, whom I held in my arms?—Oh, don't talk that way to me—I can't stand it, my lady! Ever since you were a child, I—”
“Yes, Martha, that is one reason for my asking you. You did love me as a child—but do you love me as a woman? A child is forgiven because it knows no better; a woman DOES know. Tell me, straight from your heart; I want to know; it will not make any difference in the way I love you. You have been everything to me, father, mother—everything, Martha. Tell me, do you forgive me?”
“I have nothing to forgive, my lady,” she answered, her voice clearing, her will asserting itself. “You have always been my lady and you always will be. Maybe you'd better not talk any more—you are all tired out, and—”