She was thinking of herself—of her freedom—though the boy knew it not. She buried her face in her hands and continued speaking; William had to bend his ear to catch the faint whisper.
“‘And there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying: neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed away.’”
“Madame Vine, do you think mamma will be there?” he presently asked. “I mean mamma that was.”
“Ay, ere long.”
“But how shall I know her? You see, I have nearly forgotten what she was like.”
She leaned over him, laying her forehead upon his wasted arm, and burst into a flood of impassioned tears. “You will know her, never fear, William; she has not forgotten you.”
“But how can we be sure that she will be there?” debated William, after a pause of thought. “You know”—sinking his voice, and speaking with hesitation—“she was not quite good; she was not good enough to papa or to us. Sometimes I think, suppose she did not grow good, and did not ask God to forgive her!”
“Oh, William!” sobbed the unhappy lady, “her whole life, after she left you, was one long scene of repentance, of seeking forgiveness. Her repentance, her sorrow, was greater than she could bear, and——”
“And what?” asked William, for there was a pause.
“Her heart broke in it—yearning after you and your father.”