"Fearful!" she replied, "it will haunt me through life. Think of that, and say one word of forgiveness, only one."
"I cannot forgive you, Miss Strickland. For my poor Bertie's illness I do; that was an unintentional injury, but his mother's misery—broken heart, no; that you might have prevented, and—and, God help me, but I cannot forgive that."
"How could I hope you would," said Frances despairingly, as she prepared to follow Amy.
"You must control your grief, Miss Strickland; be calm and passionless as of old. My boy must see no tears."
"I wonder I have any to shed," she replied, "and God knows how I shall bear to see him."
Anne looked bewildered as the door opened and Amy returned with Frances, and still more so when she saw the child's face light up with pleasure, and he tried in his feeble way to clasp her neck.
"I cannot bear to look at it," said Amy, as she softly left the room.
"Naughty! naughty Missy," he said as he kissed her.
Frances felt as if she could have died then, without one sigh of regret. For a moment after he released her she did not raise her head.
"My dear,—dear Bertie," she said, struggling with her tears. Then presently she sat down and fondled and stroked his thin small hand, soothing and coaxing him as well as she was able. If her heart could have broken, surely it would have broken then.