"Do you know, something whispered at that instant that God had not punished us enough, that Ralphie was not in heaven, and that the sins of the fathers—Oh, my darling, my darling!"
With a shrill cry she stopped, turned to the bed, threw her outspread arms about the child, and kissed it fervently.
The tears came at length, and rained down on that little silent face. Hugh Ritson could support the strain no longer.
"Mercy," he said, and his voice had a deep tremor—"Mercy, if there is any sin, it is mine, and if there is to be any punishment hereafter, that will be mine too. As for your little boy, be sure he is in heaven." He had stepped to the door, and his thumb was on the wooden latch. "You say rightly, we shall never meet again," he said in a muffled voice. "Good-bye."
Mercy lifted her tearful face. "Give me your hand at parting," she said in an imploring tone. He was on the opposite side of the bed from where she stood, and she reached her hand across it. He took a step nearer, and his hand closed in hers. Between them and beneath their clasped hands lay the child. "Hugh, we could not love in this world—something went astray with us; but we shall meet again, shall we not?"
He turned his eyes away.
"Perhaps," he answered.
"Promise me," she said—"promise me."
He drew his breath hard.
"If there is a God and a judgment, be sure we shall meet," he said.