'Dear Cardie, forgive me; I did not mean to pain you like this.'
'Aunt Milly,' in a voice so hoarse and changed that Mildred quite started, 'if she die, if Olive die, I shall never know a moment's peace again;' and the groan that accompanied the words wrung Mildred's tender heart with compassion.
'God forbid we should lose her, Richard,' she returned, gently.
'Do not try to deceive me,' he returned, bitterly, in the same low, husky tones. 'I heard what he said--what you both said--that it could not go on much longer; and I saw his face when he thought he was alone. There is no hope--none.'
'Oh, Richard, hush,' replied Mildred, in uncontrollable agitation; 'while there is life, there is hope. Think of David, "While the child was yet alive I fasted and wept;" he could not tell whether God meant to be gracious to him or not. We will pray, you and I, that our girl may be spared.'
'I pray, Aunt Milly? I, who have treated her so cruelly? I, who have flung hard words to her, who have refused to forgive her? I----' and he hid his pale, convulsed face in his hands again.
'But you have forgiven her now, you do her justice. You believe how truly she loved, she will ever love you.'
'Too late,' he groaned. 'Yes, I see it now, she was too good for us; we made her unhappy, and God is taking her home to her mother.'
'Then you will let her go, dear Cardie. Hush, it would break her heart to see you so unhappy;' and Mildred knelt down on the grass beside him, and stroked back the dark waves of hair tenderly. She knew the pent-up anguish of weeks must have its vent, now that his stoical manhood had broken down. Remorse, want of rest, deadly conflict and anxiety, had at last overcome the barrier of his reserve; and, as he flung himself down beside her, with his face hidden in the bracken, she knew the hot tears were welling through his fingers.
For a long time she sat beside him, till his agitation had subsided; and then, in her low, quiet voice, she began to talk to him. She spoke of Olive's purity and steadfastness of purpose, her self-devotedness and power of love; and Richard raised his head to listen. She told him of those Sunday afternoons spent by her mother's grave, that quiet hour of communion bracing her for the jars and discords of the week. And she hinted at those weary moods of perpetual self-torture and endless scruple, which hindered all vigorous effort and clouded her youth.