There was a long, long pause of utter consternation, then the stricken girl moaned pitifully:
“Oh, mamma, why did you nurse me back to life? You should have let me die.”
One week later Pansy was sitting up, a pale little ghost of the bright, pretty girl who, just a year ago, had gone home with Uncle Robbins to find so cruel a fate. She had been watching the sun set, and turned with heavy, listless eyes when her mother entered with a slice of toast and some tea for her supper.
“Mamma, will you tell me why you always lock my door on the outside? Are you afraid that I will run away?” she asked sadly.
“Oh, my dear, do not be frightened, but—I am afraid of your brother.”
“Mamma—of Willie?”
“Yes, he is sixteen now, you know—old enough to feel keenly the disgrace that has fallen on the family. He is so angry, and he has been egged on, I know, by Mr. Finley. I—I—hope he will come to his senses some time,” sighing.
“Mamma, you said you were afraid. You locked the door whenever you went out. Why?” panted Pansy, with dilated eyes; and the wretched mother, leaning over her wretched child, whispered plaintively:
“Try to forgive him, my poor child, for he is half crazed now, and his passionate boyish temper all ablaze with anger. Poor lad! The disgrace has blighted all his future, he says, and he has sworn revenge.”
“Revenge—on me?” questioned Pansy faintly.