“You talked about prayer and forgiveness, and spoke about your poor husband. There, there; try and be calm. This has been too much for you, and has brought up all your old sorrows. You want rest and a good long sleep.”
“What else did I say?”
“Oh, I don’t remember much more.”
“You must,” cried the woman angrily; “I will know.”
“Very little else. I think you said that you hoped your husband was looking down upon you, or words to that effect. There, don’t let us talk about it any more. Go and lie down, and when you are well rested come and help me again. We have so much to do. My poor cousin is completely prostrate.”
“Yes,” said the woman, looking at her searchingly. “Poor Miss Claude! Broken-hearted. He worshipped her, in his way—in his way.”
“Come,” said Mary, gently, as she tried to lead her from the room, for the woman seemed to her as one distraught.
“Tell me again; try to recollect. What did I say?”
“Surely I have told you enough,” said Mary. “There, you are ill.”
“Yes, ill—sick at heart—sick with horror,” whispered the woman, clinging to her with convulsive strength. “I came in and looked at his poor appealing face, and it was like seeing Isaac—my husband, again—snatched away so suddenly, just when he was so strong and full of what he meant to do; and it was as if master’s eyes were staring at me and read my heart, and knew everything—everything, and it was too horrible to bear.”