Never mind; it's all over now.
Go on."
She complied, a little nervously at first; but he did not interrupt her
again. He listened while she proceeded, looking straight at her; not
speaking or moving--except when he winced once or twice, as a man
winces under unexpected pain, while Mary's death-bed words were
repeated to him. Having reached this stage of her narrative, Mrs.
Peckover added little more; only saying, in conclusion: "I took care of
the poor soul's child, as I said I would; and did my best to behave
like a mother to her, till she got to be ten year old; then I give her
up--because it was for her own good--to Mr. Blyth."
He did not seem to notice the close of the narrative. The image of the
forsaken girl, sitting alone by the roadside, with her child's natural
sustenance dried up within her--travel-worn, friendless, and
desperate--was still uppermost in his mind; and when he next spoke,
gratitude for the help that had been given to Mary in her last sore
distress was the one predominant emotion, which strove roughly to
express itself to Mrs. Peck over in these words:
"Is there any living soul you care about that a trifle of money would
do a little good to?" he asked, with such abrupt eagerness that she was
quite startled by it.
Pages:
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593