“You needn’t put so much force upon that. Yes; Franzy’s the man.”
A new look dawns upon Leslie’s face. A new light gleams from her eyes. She presses her palms to her forehead, then slowly approaches Mamma, with the uncertain movements of one groping in the dark.
“You told—” she articulates, as if struggling for self-mastery. “Woman, you told me that Franz Francoise was your son.”
“So he is. I ain’t ashamed of him,” Mamma answers sullenly.
“Then,”—Leslie clutches at the nearest support and fairly gasps the words—“then—who am I?”
“Well, it can’t be kept back any longer, it seems. You are—”
“Not your child?” cries Leslie. “Not yours?”
“No; you ain’t ours by birth, but you’re ours by adoption. We’ve reared ye, and we’ve made ye what ye are.”
But Leslie pays no heed to this latter statement. She has fallen upon her knees with hands uplifted, and streaming eyes.
“Not her child; not hers! Oh, God, I thank thee! Oh, God, forgive me for what I was about to do!”