“I may not tell. Hug me closer, Bessie, dear. I’m in woeful want o’ love.”
She rocked me, then—smoothing my cheek—kissing me—hoping thus to still my grief. A long, long time she coddled me, as my mother might have done.
“Not sinful,” she said.
“Ay, a wicked fellow. We must turn un out o’ here, Bessie. He’ve no place here, no more. He’ve sinned.”
She kissed me on the lips. Her arms tightened about me. And there we sat—I in my sister’s arms—hopeless in the drear light of that day.
“I love him,” she said.
“Love him no more! Bessie, dear, he’ve sinned past all forgiving.”
Again—and now abruptly—she stopped rocking. She sat me back in her lap. I could not evade her glance—sweet-souled, confident, content, reflecting the bright light of heaven itself.
“There’s no sin, Davy,” she solemnly said, “that a woman can’t forgive.”