“What makes you suppose such a thing as that, mother? Of course she is my sister.”
“But suppose she were not,” persisted Mrs. Fowler, “you would not recall your promise?”
“No, surely not, for I love her. But why do you talk so, mother?” and a suspicion crossed Frank’s mind that his mother’s intellect might be wandering.
“It is time to tell you all, Frank. Sit down by the bedside, and I will gather my strength to tell you what must be told.”
“Grace is not your sister, Frank!”
“Not my sister, mother?” he exclaimed. “You are not in earnest?”
“I am quite in earnest, Frank.”
“Then whose child is she?”
“She is my child.”
“Then she must be my sister—are you not my mother?”