Her words were few, but they made an impression that Mrs. Beresford could not resist, for however indifferent she might appear, she knew that she should not dare to face her husband if the child should die without her seeing him.
Her resolution almost failed as she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass that had once reflected such a lovely vision, but it was too late to turn back now, and she crossed the passage and entered the sick-room. There on the bed lay Lion, his curls gone, his face hollow and deathlike, but when he saw her he held out his hands with a cry, “Oh, please say forgive!”
“What does he mean?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” said the nurse, “he has been saying it ever since I came. You had better speak to him.”
“What do you want, Lion?” she said, repressing a shudder as she went up to the bedside.
“Oh, mamma, I did promise daddy to be good, and you said I was so naughty, and then you got your face burnt, and it was all my fault. Oh, please say forgive!”
Forgive? If anyone needed forgiveness it was not Lion, and as if a veil had suddenly been lifted from her eyes, Mrs. Beresford saw herself in the true light at last, worldly-minded, selfish-hearted, far, far different from the pure and loving nature before her!
“Oh, my child, my little child!” she said, bending down to take him in her arms.
There was silence for a few moments, while Lion lay wonderingly in the embrace that had never enfolded him before, then raising his hand to her bandaged face he whispered—
“Poor mamma, you’re much worser than I am; but you’ll tell daddy I was sorry, won’t you?”