Lizzī lay on the floor moaning and calling herself "a bad, bad woman."
Her father's heart almost burst. Could it be after all that she was dishonest? Could it be that her mother had read her aright? Could it be that she had cruelly encouraged his faith in her, knowing the certainty of his discovery of the truth at last? No, no; it could not be. In his desperation he became calm, with the forced self-control that makes many a man firm on the gallows. His tones had not a ring of hope as he said:
"Don't grovel there, Lizzī. Stand up. There's yer old dead mother, and here's yer old dyin' father. Git up and face her and me, and tell the truth, and it all too, mind."
His voice grew sharp and commanding; never had he spoken so sternly to her. She slowly lifted herself and looked first at the dead, then at her father. A shudder passed over her. He mistook her manner for fear, and was convinced she had deceived him. Taking one step forward, he lifted his hand to strike her and huskily exclaimed:
"You hussy!"
A spasm passed over her face, then she calmly awaited the blow. The look in her eyes checked it. When his hand fell to his side, she spoke:
"I forgive you, father, for the dead mother's sake."
Her tones were deep and tender, and he bowed before the majesty of unsullied womanhood. He knew without further assurance that she was pure.
"Call the boys," she said in quiet command. He obeyed her, and her brothers promptly responded. For a moment she gazed upon them tenderly as they stood mutely expectant behind their father; and then, with one of her royal gestures, put her hand to her neck and tore open her dress, exposing her bosom.
"My heart's white as that," she said, tapping with her finger-tips the fair skin, "and there's the proof of it."