“Lor’ bless the child,” sobbed Dinah from behind her woolen apron, “I knowed she would remember me.”
“And me,” joined in Hetty. “Don’t you mind how I is spoke of, too? She was a lady, every inch of her, Miss Marian was, an’ if I said any badness of her, I want you to forgive me, Dinah. Here’s my hand,” and these two old ladies took each other’s hand in token that they were joined together now in one common sorrow.
Indeed, for once, the Higginses and Smitherses forgot their ancient feud and united in extolling the virtues of the lost one. After reading the letter as many as three times—for when their grief had somewhat subsided, the blacks would ask to hear it again, so as to have fresh cause for tears—Alice returned to the parlor, where she knew Frederic was sitting. Her own heart was throbbing with anguish, but she felt that his was a sorrow different from her own, and feeling her way to where he sat she wound her little arms around his neck, and whispered tenderly: “We must love each other more now that Marian is gone.”
He made no answer except to take her on his lap and lay her head upon his bosom; but Alice was satisfied with this, and after a moment she said, “Frederic, do you know why Marian killed herself?”
“Oh, Alice, Alice,” he groaned. “Don’t say those dreadful words. I cannot endure the thought.”
“But,” persisted the child, “she couldn’t have known what she was doing, and God forgave her.—Don’t you think He did? She asked him to, I am sure, when she was sinking in the deep water.”
The child’s mind had gone further after the lost one than Frederic’s had, and her question inflicted a keener pang than any he had felt before. He had ruined Marian, body and soul, and Alice felt his hot tears dropping on her face as he made her no reply. Her faith was stronger than his, and putting up her waxen hand, she wiped his tears away, saying to him, “We shall meet Marian again, I know, and then if you did anything naughty which made her go away, you can tell her you are sorry, and she’ll forgive you, for she loved you very much.”
Alice’s words were like arrows to the heart of the young man, and still he felt in the first hours of his desolation that she was his comforting angel, and he could not live without her. More than once she asked him if he knew why Marian went away, and at last he made her answer, “Yes, Alice, I do know, but I cannot tell you now. You would not understand it.”
“I think I should,” persisted the child, “and I should feel so much better if I knew there was a reason.”
Thus importuned, Frederic replied, “I can only tell you that she thought I did not love her.”