"Only for one thing," said the rector, quietly, "that my house is 'left unto me desolate.'"
"And yet you call the God, who took your Kitty from you, a God of love."
"Yes. Who, looking at her pitiful little frame, can doubt it? My selfish heart cries out for her yet; but what could her life have been but one of constant suffering."
"But, I suppose, she was born like that?" said Paul, more to himself than to the rector.
Mr. Curzon's face twitched a little. "Oh no; she was the brightest, healthiest little child you have ever seen; and then she was dropped. And the girl who dropped her did not tell any one about it for months after—not until the child's back began to grow out."
"How did you find it out at last?" asked Paul, deeply interested.
"The girl came of her own accord to confess it. She was pretty well heart-broken when she discovered that Kitty was injured for life."
"I would never have forgiven her!" said Paul, bitterly.
"Yes, you would. You would have done much as I did, I expect; I let her work out her repentance. She is the nurse who has devoted herself to Kitty like a mother, and who mourns for her like one, too. We can never be separated; where I go she will go. And now she has not Kitty she will help me to look after some of the sick children in my parish."
"So you have decided to go?"