"Ah, the mistake!" I said; "ah, the pity of it! You do not tell me how you have suffered, Vesty; how your own heart has been torn."
She took my hand, and, turning her head, pushed it gently away from her, as some blind instrument of torture.
"The last time I heard you sing, Vesty, you put your hands on Uncle Benny's poor, confused head and soothed and guided him. Who was there to help or guide you, motherless child, confused and lost?"
"Could you have seen the way?" How she entreated me!
"No one sees the way. But a broken heart and a life—misguided and lost though it be—given."
She looked up, dim, again.
"You will make them happy here," I added. Ah, that she understood! She looked about the room with a sad, brave pride, and rose and stood again, a striking picture there.
"They did need me," she said; "he needed me more than Notely. And I shall get time, besides, to go over to father's and help with the children."
I nodded. "Oh, it is bravely done," I said. "We shall get on." For she was worn from her long mental struggle, and nearly wild in those dark-circled eyes. "There will be no more feathers in Captain Rafe's cake. Did I tell you? He and the boys invited me here to tea. They had been dressing birds and baking in the same morning. The plum cake was full of feathers, Vesty."
She laughed, and looked at me with shocked gratitude because I had made her laugh.