"No—child—no," he gasped; "God help thee—no!"
"If—if it were for sin of mine," she said slowly, and watching him as if she had not known whether she might trust his words—"might I not leave the world, and take the veil in the Convent of the Holy Cross?"
"Thou?" he cried. "Thou!"
"Am I not fit?" she asked. "Is it not for those who suffer and would leave the world?"
He shook his head. "No; thou art beloved of the Holy Mother. The world is thy cross. It is there that thou shalt do thy penance. The Convent is not for thee."
"Father, I have no tears to offer in penance."
"God asketh not tears if He hath denied them," he answered—his own choking his speech, "but the gift of what He hath given thee—to stand where He hath placed thee and take up thy burden of life."
"Father, I have no strength, nor will."
"They will be sent thee," he answered her.
"God is not angry with me?" she asked again with sudden passion. "Then why—why did He take my child away—my little, little child?—and —thus?"