"Will you make a better man of him in the world than his father was?" said Vesty simply.
"You know that I worship Gurdon Rafe's memory," cried Mrs. Garrison, with adroit heat. "What do you think would please him best for his wife and child—misery and cold with an old man who could have a better home among his own kin, had he not to make the effort to support you—or happiness and warmth and love, and a great sphere of usefulness, happiness, and education for his child?"
"You see," said Vesty, on the plain Basin path, "in trying to get those things we might miss the only—the greatest—thing, that Gurdon had. I'd rather my boy should learn to have that, and miss all the others."
"O my dear! you shall teach your child, you shall be always with him. I have some things to remember and regret, Vesty. I promise you solemnly—and I do not break my word—I will not interfere. You shall teach and guide your child as you will."
Notely was awake and calling.
"Go to him," said Mrs. Garrison, excitement in her eyes; "he will explain to you, my child." There was a tenderness, a hope, a voluptuousness of sweet earthly things in her manner toward the poor girl now, which all her life Vesty had missed.
Heart and flesh were weary, and Notely, who had been the light of her life once, looked up at her with that weight of sorrow, so much darker and heavier than her own; so much heavier because it was dark.
"Help me to bear it!" he said.
She understood all; she laid her head beside him, sobbing.
"Vesty, you know the doctors say that I shall live; but—now that I am sane again, I do not know why I should wish to live."