"And the child—did you never hear anything more of it?" inquired Christie.
"Nothing concerning it have I ever heard."
"Then it may be still alive."
"It is very probable; villain as he was, he would not slay his own child. But enough of this; it is wearing late, and thee looks tired, Christie. Good-night, my daughter."
Christie sought her couch, to wonder and dream over what she had heard, and forget for a time her own griefs in thinking of the greater ones of poor Bertha. How similar, too, seemed their fate! The sufferings of both had originated in those fatal secret marriages. Bertha's were over, but Christie's were not; and wondering how hers were to end, Christie fell asleep.
And thus days, and weeks, and months glided by in the little, lonely, forest cottage. The long, dreary winter passed, and spring was again robing the trees in green, while the inmates of the cottage knew nothing of the events passing in the great world, more than if they no longer dwelt in it—dreamed not of the startling denouement to the tragedy of the isle that was even then hastening to a close; until their peace was broken by an unexpected occurrence that roused Christie into electric life once more.
But for the present we must leave her, and return to the other scenes and characters of our story.
CHAPTER XXVI.
REMORSE.
"Oh, tell me, father, can the dead
Walk on the earth and look on us,
And lay upon the living's head
Their blessing or their curse?
She comes to me each night—
The dried leaves do not feel her tread;
She stands by me, in the deep midnight,
In the white robes of the dead."—WHITTIER.