“You have kept yourself poor that we might live in idleness.”
“You are wrong,” he said, with a quiet laugh. “I was never richer than during these peaceful years—that have now come to an end,” he added sorrowfully; “and you would make me poor once more. There,” he continued, speaking quickly, “I confess all. Forgive me. I could not see you in want.”
“I should not have been in want,” she said proudly. “If I had known that it was necessary I should work, the toil would have come easily to my hands. I should have toiled on for my child’s sake, and waited patiently until my husband bade me come.”
“But you forgive me?” he said, in his old tone.
For answer she sank upon the floor at his feet, covering her face with her hands; and he heard her sobbing.
“Good-night,” he said at last. “I will send Julie.”
He bent down and laid his fingers softly upon her head for a moment, and was turning to go, but she caught at his hand and held it.
“A moment,” she cried; “best and truest friend. Forgive me, and mine—when we are divided, as we shall be—for life, try—pray for me—pray for him—and believe in him—as you do in me—my husband, Christie Bayle—my poor martyred husband.”
“And I am forgiven?” he said.
“Forgiven!”