She spoke in a quick, toneless voice, that sounded very feeble,—almost as if the life going from her had left it behind as a stranded wreck of sound.
Aline turned with a sob.
"Heavens, child! did you think I did n't know I was going, or that I expected you to cry over me? You 've been a butt for my sharp tongue too often to be heart-broken when there 's a chance of your being left in peace."
"Oh, don't!" said Aline, choking; and something in voice and face brought a queer look to the black, mocking eyes.
"What, you really care a little? My dear, it's too amiable of you. Why, Aline,"—as the girl buried her face in her hands,—"why, Aline!"
There was a pause, and then the weak voice went on again:
"If you do care at all—if I mean anything at all in your life—then I will ask you one thing. What are you doing to Jacques?"
"Was that why you hated me?" said Aline quickly.
"Oh, hate? Well, I never hated you, but—Yes, that was it. He and Ange are the two things I 've had to love, and though I don't suppose he thinks about me twice a year, still his happiness means more to me than it does—well, to you."
"Oh, that's not true!" cried Aline on a quick breath.