He sprang up and seized her hands in his own. They were both old people, with but few years to live, yet at this moment they felt as if they were thirty years younger, and in the early prime of their days, when Sophy had disappeared, and the trouble first crushed them. If she had opened the door and entered among them with her pretty face and saucy manner, they would have seen her without a shadow or touch of surprise.
"Yes, I have heard of her," said Rachel breathlessly.
Andrew fell back in his chair, and his withered face went ashy pale. He only cried, as if to himself, "My God! my God!"
"But, Brother Andrew," continued Rachel in a forced, monotonous manner, "she is dead. Sophy died thirty years ago."
"Sophy died thirty years ago!" he repeated, gazing at her with dim eyes, from which all the light had faded.
"Very far away, in foreign parts," went on Rachel; "and before she died—the very day before she died—she wrote a letter to me, a long letter, that was never sent."
"Died thirty years ago," murmured Andrew, as if his brain could understand nothing more.
"Rachel," said Mary eagerly, "just sit down and tell us all about it. Have you brought the letter? Was she married? Who did she run away with? Be quiet, and tell."
"First," answered Rachel, "I want to know if you can forgive the man who persuaded her to run away, Brother Andrew?"
"No! no!" he exclaimed.