The Sin That Was His

by Frank L. Packard

“What is this she says, my son?”

Raymond shook his head.

“I do not know,” he said huskily.

The eyes opened again, clearer now—and recognition came into them as they met Raymond's. And there came a smile, and she reached out her hand to him.

“You, father—I—I was afraid you would not come in time. I—I am stronger now. Give Valerie the cup, and kneel, father—don't you remember—like that night in the church—and hold my hand—and—and do not let it go because—because then I—I should be afraid that God—that God would not forgive.”

He took her hand between both his own, and knelt beside the bed.

“I will not let it go,” he said—and tried to keep the choking from his throat. “What is it that you want to say—Mother Blondin?”

Her fingers twined over his, and clung tighter and tighter.

“That man, father—he—he must not hang. I—I cannot go to God with that on my soul. I lied at the trial—I lied. I hated God then. I wanted only revenge because my son was dead. I said I recognised him again, but—but that is not true, for the light was low, and—and I do not see well—but—but that—that does not matter, father—it is not that—for it must have been that man. But it was not that man who—who tried to rob me—it—it was my own son. That man is innocent—innocent—I tell you—I——” She raised herself wildly up in bed. “Why do you look at me like that, Father Aubert—with that white face—is it too late—too late—and—and—will God not forgive?”

“It is not too late. Go on, Mother Blondin”—it was his lips that formed the words; it was not his voice, it could not be—that quiet voice speaking so softly.