Ethel dropped her crocheting, rose hastily, and putting her arms about the Madame’s neck, said soothingly, “Don’t misunderstand me, auntie dear. I did not mean—I could not feel for a moment that my mother or I could wish to add a feather’s weight to all you have suffered, or help grieving over it, or wishing you might have been spared it.”
“What then?” asked the Madame petulantly, and with a movement as if she would free herself from the enfolding arms.
“Only,” Ethel said gently, withdrawing them and resuming her seat, “that sin as committed against God cannot be atoned for by anything that we can do or suffer.”
“I shall try to sleep now,” said the Madame, closing her eyes. “I am exhausted.”
And truly she looked as if she were; her face was haggard and old beyond her years, and her eyes were swollen with weeping.
Ethel’s filled with tears as she gazed upon the careworn, miserable face, and thought how wretched she was in spite of all her wealth; how her wounded spirit would keep her so, even could her hand and health of body be restored.
“Poor thing!” said the young girl to herself, “none but Jesus can do her good, and she will not come to Him.”
Feigned sleep presently became real, and for an hour or more Ethel was to all intents and purposes as much alone as if she had been sole occupant of the room.
She did not move from her chair, but her fingers were busy with her crocheting, her thoughts equally so with the tale to which she had been listening.
It seemed to have made her acquainted with her mother, and she dwelt upon her character, as drawn by Madame Le Conte, with ever-increasing love and admiration.