“Yes, it is all over long ago. It happened that night when I kept you from running away. You were so ill you never knew.”
She paused, but the big, beseeching blue eyes were still asking silent questions, and, putting her hand up to her face, Mrs. Finley said, in a broken voice:
“Your child only lived one day, Pansy. It was better so.”
“Dead!”
That one wailing cry broke the stillness, then low and bitter sobs heaved Pansy’s breast. The mother who had never seen the face of her child was weeping over its death.
“It was better so, my dear, better so. Had it lived it could but have added to your disgrace,” Mrs. Finley kept repeating, and at last the poor girl, stung by the words, answered petulantly:
“How can you talk of disgrace? I told you that I was the wife of Norman Wylde.”
“You were deceived, my poor child,” answered her mother sadly.
“Deceived!”
“Yes, Pansy. I told Mr. Finley everything. He went to Washington to find out the truth. My poor girl, that villain deceived you. There was no license taken out; there was no minister of the name you told me, and you had no marriage certificate. By your confidence in a villain against whom we all warned you, you have ruined yourself and brought disgrace upon your relations.”