“No, no; you were always a kind, good friend. But I suppose he thought it best. Becky is in the sitting-room; won’t you see her and comfort her?”
“Now and always. With Aunt Hulda’s permission, she shall be my especial charge hereafter.”
“O, you are so good! No wonder people love you.”
Mrs. Thompson kissed her friend, and passed out of the room. Aunt Hulda smoothed the bedclothes, and looked at her patient inquiringly.
“Yes, go, go,” said Mrs. Sleeper. “But first kiss me, Aunt Hulda—won’t you my best friend?”
Aunt Hulda made a dash at her lips, and a loud smack resounded through the room.
“You dear, dear, dear child! May the Lord give me strength to do for you as you deserve!”
With her apron to her eyes, Aunt Hulda left the room, leaving the invalid to her solitary vigil. Already was adversity working in her for good. The mother-love so long repressed in her heart had, by one of those strange phases of illness, at once asserted itself the ruling power. Only a few hours had the active forces refused to obey the will; only a few hours had the brain caught this new power from the heart; yet it had travelled over years and years of neglect and wasted opportunity, with bitter regrets that might yet shape themselves into guiding forces, in the lonely vigils of the years to come.
Becky Sleeper, under the shadow of this sudden visitation, had in turn received a shock. The terrible sequel to her frolic had, upon her revival, produced such a nervous state, that for two hours she lay upon the sofa, trembling and weeping, in the presence of the astonished Teddy, who never before had seen a tear in the eyes of his volatile sister. Harry Thompson had, when he found her in no danger, consulted his own safety by driving to the house of Mr. Drinkwater for a change of raiment. Aunt Hulda’s attention was required at the bed-side of her patient, and Miss Becky was left to recover at her leisure. The period of lamentation having passed away, she lapsed into a state of dejection, so long and silent that Teddy, weary with waiting for her to break the silence, quietly fell asleep.
Becky’s thoughts ran over and over the recent events; but in the midst of them all this was uppermost: “I’ve killed mother.” Again she swept across the Basin; again clutched at drifting Teddy; again fell splashing in the water; again glided down the stream, heard the roar of the dam, the voice of Harry; but all mixed with this one thought, “I’ve killed mother.” And she buried her head in the sofa, shut her eyes hard, and thrust her fingers into her ears, in vain attempts to shut out the thought. What would become of her? Would she be locked up in jail—hanged? She must be, for it was murder!