Wondering a little what she had to say to him, he humored her wishes, sending them all from the room.
“Now, Mrs. Corliss,” he said, kindly drawing his chair up close by the bedside, “what is it? You can speak out without reserve; we are all alone.”
“Is it true that I can not live?” she asked, eagerly scanning his face. “Tell me truthfully, master, is the wound a fatal one?”
“Yes,” he said, sympathetically, “I––I––am afraid it is.”
He saw she was making a violent effort to control her emotions. “Do not speak,” he said, gently; “it distresses you. You need perfect rest and quiet.”
“I shall never rest again until I make atonement for my sin,” she cried, feebly. “Oh, master, you have ever been good and kind to me, but I have sinned against you beyond all hope of pardon. When you hear what I have to say you will curse me. Oh, how can I tell it! Yet I can not sleep in my grave with this burden on my soul.”
He certainly thought she was delirious, this poor, patient, toil-worn soul, speaking so incoherently of sin; she, so tender-hearted––she could not even have hurt a sparrow.
“I can promise you my full pardon, Mrs. Corliss,” he said, soothingly; “no matter on what grounds the grievance may be.”
For a moment she looked at him incredulously.
“You do not know what you say. You do not understand,” she muttered, fixing her fast-dimming eyes strangely upon him.