Then getting up, glancing nervously at her son, lifting a knife from the table, creeping to the side of the bed and ripping a hole in the ticking, she drew out a soiled and crumpled paper.
“Look you, lass, I took this frae the man's trunk when he lodged wi' yer father and yersel' at Fornside.”
It was a copy of the register of Joe's birth, showing that he was the son of a father unknown.
“I knew he must have it. He always threatened that he'd get it. He wad have made mischief wi' it somehow.”
Mrs. Garth spoke in whispers, but her voice broke her son's restless sleep. Garth was sinking fast, but he looked quieter when his eyes opened again. “I think God has forgiven me my great crime,” he said calmly, “for the sake of the merciful Saviour, who would not condemn the woman that was a sinner.”
Then he crooned over the Quaker hymn,—
Though your sins be red as scarlet,
He shall wash them white as wool.
Infinitely touching was it to hear his poor, feeble, broken voice spend its last strength so.
“Sing to me, Rotha,” he said, pausing for breath.
“Yes, Joe. What shall I sing?”