"No. Had my boy lived he would have avenged his mother's wrongs, and hated her, even as I do."
"Alas, Amy! You hate her. Your heart never used to be so cruel as this."
"No, it did not. She has made me what I am. Has she not pursued me with her revengeful cruelty for years? Has she not taken my only earthly hope from me, even my husband's love? And yet you wonder that I am changed—can ask me to forgive her."
"No, Amy, not taken your husband's love; he loves you still."
"If he did, I should not be sitting here, broken hearted and alone, with nothing but my own sorrowful thoughts, and—and you to comfort me."
"He will forgive you, and take you to his heart in time, Amy."
"Never! How can I convince him that I love him now? His very kindness chills me—so different to what it was; the changed tone of his voice tells me I have lost his love. He lives; yet is dead to me,—is mine, yet, how far off from me; and she who has wrought me all this misery, done all she has it in her power to do, now sues for forgiveness. Is it possible I can forgive, or clasp her hand in mine again?" The stony look was gradually relaxing, a slight, colour mantled her cheeks, and she concluded, almost passionately,—"No, Anne, I will not forgive her! Will not! Urge me no more. I cannot speak to her, much less see her again."
"And yet think of her kindness to your boy. He remembered it, and gave her his top when he was dying."
"You are cruel to remind me of it," said Amy, taking some fresh flowers off the table she was wreathing into a cross for Bertie; her last sad, mournful, but loving work.
Anne drew near, and passed her arm lovingly round her waist.