Constance sprang up, forgetful of embarrassment, forgetful of old wrongs, remembering only to pity and to forgive, like the sweet girl that she was.
"Ah, Mother, never mind! Love me now, and never mind that once you did not!" she cried.
Dame Eliza leaned to her and kissed her cheek.
"Dear lass," she murmured, "how could I grudge thee thy father's love, since needs must one love thee who knows thee?"
[CHAPTER XX]
The Third Summer's Garnered Yield
Side by side now, through the weary days of another year, Constance Hopkins and her stepmother bore and vanquished the cruel difficulties which those days brought.
Dame Eliza had been sincere in her contrition as was proved by the one test of sincerity—her actions bore out her words.
Toward Giles she held herself kindly, yet never showed him affection. But toward Constance her manner was what might be called eagerly affectionate, as if she so longed to prove her love for the girl that the limitations of speech and opportunity left her unsatisfied of expression.
Hunger was the portion of everyone in Plymouth; conditions had grown harder with longer abiding there, except in the one—though that was important—matter of the frightful epidemic of the first winter.