"Could you not forgive her for loving my father?" interposed Queenie softly.
"Pshaw! she had no love for him. She was fooled by a soft tongue and handsome face; she was to choose between us,—the invalid sorely-tried brother, who had cared for her all her life, and Frank Marriott,—and she chose him."
"She did, and became our dearest blessing."
"Aye, he valued his blessing," with a sneer; "he did not drag her down, and wear out her youth for her, eh? What does it matter what he did? From that day she was no sister of mine; I did not welcome her when she came to me, or feel grieved when she left."
"Alas! we knew that too well when she came back to us looking so sad and weary."
"She told Frank Marriott that I repulsed and treated her cruelly, eh?"
"No, she never told him that; she bore her troubles silently, and brooded over them; but," in a low voice, "it helped to kill her."
The veins on Mr. Calcott's forehead swelled visibly, and his eyes became bloodshot.
"What, girl! you come into my house uninvited and accuse me of being my sister's murderer! Do you know I can have you up for libel and falsehood?"
"I never told a falsehood in my life," returned Queenie simply; and somehow the young quiet voice seemed to soothe the old man's fury. "Poor mamma was unhappy, and grew weaker and weaker; and so when the fever came she had no strength to throw it off. The doctors never expected her to die, but I did always. Once in the middle of the night I heard her say, 'I ought never to have left Andrew—poor Andrew;' but I did not understand it then."