“Once,—and not so very long ago,—for you there was no such thing as the ‘better-class,’ Sergius!” she said; “You were wont to declare that rich and poor alike were all one family in the sight of God!”
“I have not altered my opinion,” said Thord, a slight flush colouring his cheek; “But—you are a woman—and as a woman should have every care and tenderness.”
“So should my still poorer sisters,” she replied; “And it is for those who have least comfort, that comfort should be provided. I am perfectly well and happy where I am!”
Remembering her fixed ideas on this point, there was an uneasy sense of trouble in Thord’s mind as he ventured again on what he feared would be a fruitless errand.
“If I could command her!” he thought, chafing inwardly at his own impotence to persuade or lead this woman, whose character and will were so much more self-contained and strong than his own. “If I could only exercise some authority over her! But I cannot. What small debt of gratitude she owed me as a child, has long been cleared by her constant work and the assistance she has given to me,—and unless she will consent to be my wife, I know I shall lose her altogether. For she will never submit to live on money that she has not earned.”
Arrived at the summit of the staircase he had been climbing, he knocked at the first door which faced him on the uppermost landing.
“Come in!” said the low, sweet voice that had thrilled and comforted so many human souls; and entering as he was bidden, he saw Lotys seated in a low chair near the window, rocking a tiny infant, so waxen-like and meagre, that it looked more like a corpse than a living child.
“The mother died last night,” she said gently, in response to his look of interrogation; “She had been struggling against want and sickness for a long time. God was merciful in taking her at last! The father has to go out all day in search of work,—often a vain search; so I do what I can for this poor little one!”
And she bent over the forlorn waif of humanity, kissing its pale small face, and pressing it soothingly to her warm, full breast. She looked quite beautiful in that Madonna-like attitude of protection and love,—her gold hair drooping against the slim whiteness of her throat,—her deep blue eyes full of that tenderness for the defenceless and weak, which is the loveliest of all womanly expressions.
Sergius Thord drew a chair opposite to her, and sat down.