Wolfe drew her hand close to his face, and she knelt down to catch his whisper.
“I killed him.”
A pause: and a sort of sob in her throat. Then, drawing away her hand, she laid her cheek to his.
“My dear, I think I have known it.”
“You—have—known—it?” stammered Wolfe in disbelief.
“Yes. I thought it was likely. I felt nearly sure of it. Don’t let it trouble you now. Archie forgave, you know, and I forgave; and God will forgive.”
“How could you come here to nurse me—knowing that?”
“It made me the more anxious to come. You have no mother.”
“No.” Wolfe was sobbing bitterly. “She died when I was born. I’ve never had anybody. I’ve never had a chapter read to me, or a prayer prayed.”
“No, no, dear. And Archie—oh, Archie had all that. From the time he could speak, I tried to train him for heaven. It has seemed to me, since, just as though I had foreseen he would go early, and was preparing him for it.”