“Netta,” he said, gently, “you have thought a great deal about me since you have been ill.”
“Yes—oh yes,” she said.
“Looking back, then, do you blame me—do you think I was cruel, and led you on to think I loved you?”
“No,” she said, and her hand closed almost convulsively on his. “I don’t think so now. I have thought it all over, and it was my folly and weakness. I seem to have grown old since then, and to have become so much wiser. That’s all past now; but I want you to tell me, first, that you did not think me forward then, and strange.”
“My child,” said Richard, “I have felt that the blame has been on my side, and it has caused me many a pang.”
“But it is all past now,” said Netta, eagerly. “I know—I can see plainly enough. You knew better how ill I was than I did, and pitied and were very sorry for me; and it seemed so sweet to me that—that I could not help watching for you—feeling glad when you came. But that’s all past now, and you said we could be friends.”
“Indeed, yes,” he said, gazing into the great, brilliant eyes; but in a sad, dreamy way, for he could read but too plainly the coming end.
“And you forgive me—quite forgive me?” she murmured.
“My poor child, I have nothing to forgive,” he said, leaning over and kissing her forehead.
“Thank you,” she murmured, closing her eyes; and she lay silent for a few moments. Then, brightening, she said, “Now tell me again about her.”