John Somerville did not understand her aright. He felt only that a mother never gives up hope.
“Yet it is a long time,” he said.
“It is—a long time to suffer,” she said. “How could any one have the heart to work me this great injury? For eight years I have led a sad and solitary life,—years that might have been made glad by Ida's presence.”
There was something in her tone which puzzled John Somerville, but he was far enough from suspecting the truth.
“Rose,” he said, after a pause. “Do you love your child well enough to make a sacrifice for the sake of recovering her?”
“What sacrifice?” she asked, fixing her eyes upon him.
“A sacrifice of your feelings.”
“Explain. You talk in enigmas.”
“Listen, then. I, too, believe Ida to be living. Withdraw the opposition you have twice made to my suit, promise me that you will reward my affection by your land if I succeed, and I will devote myself to the search for Ida, resting day nor night till I am able to place her in your arms. Then, if I succeed, may I claim my reward?”
“What reason have you for thinking you should find her?” asked Mrs. Clifton, with the same inexplicable manner.