“I have repented,” he cried; “my God, I have repented,” and he fell on his knees and covered his face. For the child’s sake he kept back the sobs which rose to his throat.
Sibyl looked at the bent head, at the dark hair already sprinkled with gray. She lay quite still, there was not the slightest doubt that the shock was great. Ogilvie waited, longing, wondering if the little hand would touch his head, if the child would forgive him.
“She is so holy, so heavenly herself,” he murmured; “is it possible that she can forgive? It must be a cruel shock to her.”
The little, white hand did not touch him. There was complete stillness in the room. At last he raised his eyes and looked at her. She looked steadily back at him.
“And so you was never perfect?” she said.
“Never.”
“And was mother never perfect?”
“Not as you think of perfection, Sibyl, but we need not talk of her now. I have sinned far more deeply than your poor mother has ever done.”
The puzzled expression grew deeper on Sibyl’s face. An old memory of her mother returned to her. She saw again the scene, and recalled her mother’s words, the words she had overheard, and which the mother had denied. She was quite still for a full moment, the little clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly, then she said slowly:
“And Lord Jesus, isn’t He perfect?”