"Did you ever hate him?"
"Yes, I think I did. I believed he hastened poor father's death; I knew
he had spoiled all my life; yes, I hated him until my heart was softened
by many sorrows--John, I loved that man who went away--so far, without
me, but I held myself bound, I thought your brother would come back and
claim [missing text] was while Jerome was in--before he went to Europe--
and I said the shame and horror was too great, I could not become
anybody's happy wife with that man who was so nearly my husband in such a
place."
"Have you regretted that decision since?" he questioned in a dry hard
tone.
"Yes."
How quiet her voice was! "I was sorry--when I read of his sudden death
two years ago--and I almost hated your brother again for keeping so much
from me--it is so hard not to hate with a bitter hatred when we have been
so wronged. How I have prayed for a forgiving heart," she sighed.
"Have you had any comfort to-day?"
"Yes, I found it in my reading this morning. Linnet was up and singing
early and I was sitting at my window over her head and I learned a lesson
of how God waits before he comforts in these words that were given new to
me. 'And the napkin that was about his head, not lying with the linen
clothes, but wrapped together in a place by itself.'"
"I cannot see any comfort in that."
There was a broken sound in the master's voice that Miss Prudence had
never heard before, a hopelessness that was something deeper than his old
melancholy.
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