Irene's eyes fairly pierced her with their keenness; still, her voice betrayed no emotion.
"You knew it all the time?" she said.
"I have known it for a very long time, Irene. Don't talk any more; it is time for your medicine now, and after it you must be very quiet, you know."
Irene was as one who had not heard.
"You do not know the worst," she said, still speaking as though her words were about some one else; but she was deathly pale. "There was a child."
Ruth hurriedly wet a cloth in a restorative and bathed her face, while she spoke low and soothingly, as to a child.
"Yes, I know; there was a dear little girl, who is a young woman now,—one of the sweetest, dearest girls in the world. I know her and love her. Irene, for Erskine's sake, won't you try to be careful!"
For Irene had pushed the soothing hand away and was making a fierce effort to raise herself to a sitting posture, and her eyes looked to Ruth for the first time like Maybelle's.
Ruth hurried her words.
"I know all that you want to say; you must lie quiet and let me talk. I am sure there must have been strong provocation, and you were very young; I know how bitterly you must have regretted it all."