The old lady smiled, gently stroking Betty’s soft cheek.
“It would be nice,” she said. “Especially the roses. And butterflies. Do you think there will be butterflies?” She asked the last question with all the wistfulness of a child and this time it was Mollie who was quick to promise.
“You shall have dozens of them,” she said. “And they’ll be every color of the rainbow.”
This reminded Allen of the embroideries which had been the main clew leading to the discovery of the old lady. He asked if he might see them, and a moment later a handful were given to him for his inspection. Man though he was, he could not but see the rare beauty of the work, and when he handed them back to Isabella Weeks there was a new respect in his eyes.
“Your brother spoke particularly of your fine needlework,” he said, adding gravely: “Your brother was very, very anxious that you should be found. Almost his last words were of you with the hope that, if you still lived, you would some day come to forgive him for his cruel injustice.”
Tears filled the old lady’s eyes.
“He was forgiven long ago,” she murmured.
Allen was about to turn away out of respect for her emotion when she suddenly laid a frail old hand on his arm.
“And James Barton?” she murmured. “Is he—Do you know where he is?”
Allen shook his head.