The morning was gray and dull. He had sat up all night by Mary; for Rachel, exhausted with fatigue, had been unable to come. Poor little Mary, her hour was nigh; she knew it, and her young heart grieved for her father, so soon to be childless. She thought of herself too; she looked over the whole of her young life, and she saw its transgressions and its sins with a sorrow free from faithless dismay; for Rachel had said to her: "Shall we dare to limit for ourselves, or for others, the unfathomed mercy of God?"
"Father," she suddenly said, "I want to speak to you."
"What is it, my darling?" he asked, bending over her fondly. She looked up in his face, her cheeks flushed with a deeper hectic, her glassy eyes lit with a brighter light.
"Father," she said, "I have been a naughty child, have I not?"
"No—no, my little pet, never, indeed, never."
"I know I have been naughty, father; I 'have been,' oh! so cross at times; but, father, I could not help it—at least, it seemed as if I could not—my back ached so, and indeed," she added, clasping her hands, "I am very sorry, father, very sorry."
He stooped still nearer to her; he laid his cheek on her pillow; he kissed her hot brow, little Mary half smiled.
"You forgive me, don't you?" she murmured faintly.
"Forgive you! my pet—my darling."
"Yes, pray do," she said.