“These kindly strangers took me in without a word—they asked no questions; I was young, friendless and unhappy, that was all they cared to know.
“I must tell you very little about them, for I do not wish to give you any clew to my home at present; they are a mother and two daughters in reduced circumstances, but having unmistakably the stamp of gentlewomen; both mother and daughter, for the second is only a child, have high, cultured natures. The mother—forgive me, Margaret, for I dare not mention her name—teaches in a school close by us, and her daughter is also a daily governess. I am thankful to say that their recommendations have procured me work of the same kind; I give morning lessons to two little boys, and Fern—that is the eldest daughter’s name—and I have also obtained some orders for embroidery to fill up our leisure hours and occupy our hands while we teach Fern’s youngest sister.
“And now I have told you all this, will you not be comforted a little about me; will you not believe that as far as possible things are well with me? Tell him—tell Raby—that when I have wiped out my sin a little by this bitter penance and mortification, till even I can feel I have suffered and repented enough, I will come back and look on your dear face again. And this for you, Margaret; know that in the blameless, hard-working life I lead that I have forgotten none of your counsel, and that I so walk in the hard and lonely path that I have marked out for myself that even you could find no fault. Farewell.
“Crystal.”
As Margaret’s voice died away, Raby turned his sightless face to her.
“You may give it back to me, Margaret, but stay, there is the copy of your answer; I think I would like to hear that once again; and Margaret obediently opened the thin, folded paper.
“My poor Darling,—At last we have heard from you—at last you have yielded to my urgent request for some news of your daily life. God bless you for lifting a little of the weight off us, for telling us something about yourself and your work. I could not help crying bitterly over your letter, to think that a humble roof shelters our child; that you are compelled to work for your living; you, Crystal, who have never known what it is to want anything; upon whom a rough wind was not suffered to blow. My child, come home. What need is there of penance and expiation when all has been forgiven? The evil spirit that tormented our child has been cast out, and you are clothed afresh and in your right mind now; come home, for dear Raby’s sake, and be his darling as of old! Do you know how he longs for you? Daily he asks ‘Any news of her, Margaret?’ and last night, as I was passing his study door, he called me in and bade me give you this message—‘Tell my child, Margaret,’ he said, ‘that every night I bless her and fall asleep breathing her name; tell her that my forgiveness and blessing are ever with her; that there is no bitterness in my heart; that she can not escape from my love; that it will follow her to the world’s end. And tell her, Margaret, that if she do not soon come back to me that I, Raby—blind, helpless, useless as I am—will seek her through God’s earth till I find her and bring her back.’ Ah, surely you must weep as you read this, Crystal. I pray that every tear may be God’s own dew to melt and break up the hardness of your heart. Your ever loving
“Margaret.”
“That was written nearly two months ago, Madge, and she has not come yet.”
“No, dear, we must have patience.”
Raby sighed impatiently. “So you always say; but it is hard to be patient under such circumstances—to know that the woman you love has made herself an exile from all she holds dear. Margaret, I was wrong not to tell her what I felt. I sometimes fear that she misjudged my silence. But she was so young.”