Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 5).djvu/98

 an effort it had cost her to appeal to me. Using the strongest plea that she knew, she pointed to her child with weak, trembling finger, and said in low tones: 'See here! She will soon be alone in the world.'

"Even this touching appeal produced (I blush to say it) no effect upon my hard heart. I answered coldly: 'Why give way to such fears? You are young; you have a good physician; why lose all hope?' A less selfish man would have added: 'You have a brother-in-law also, who means to do his best for you.' But I said nothing of the sort. My only thought was how I might most easily escape from the threatened burden. The little girl, who had been gazing at me with wondering eyes, now came to my side, and said: 'Will you, please, sit upon the bed? Because you are too tall for me to kiss you if you stand.'

"I sat down, and the child climbed upon my knee. Her mother's eyes were closed, and her hands were clasped together as if in prayer. Unaffrighted by my black looks, the little one threw her arms around my neck, and pressed her lips to my cheek. 'Will you be my papa?' said she. 'I will love you so dearly! You are like papa. He was very good. Are you good, too?' My only answer was to unclasp her arms somewhat roughly from my neck, and set her down upon the floor. She cast upon me a glance of mingled surprise, disappointment, and fear, and a tear rolled slowly down her cheek. Her silent sorrow worked the miracle that her pretty, fond prattle had failed to effect. As by an enchanter's wand, the ugliness of my character, the utter brutality of my conduct was revealed to me in that moment. I shuddered in horror and self-disgust, and yielded at once to my good angel. I lifted the disconsolate little maiden into my arms, and, laying my hand upon her head, said: 'Yes, my child, I promise to be a father to you; you shall be my dear little daughter, and I will love and take care of you always.'

"How happy this promise made my sister-in-law words fail me to describe. Her joyful excitement alarmed both the physician and myself. Joy, however, seldom kills. 'Brother! brother!' she murmured; 'how my thoughts have wronged you! Forgive me!' Her gratitude stung my newly-awakened conscience more sharply than any reproach could have done. I hastened to change the subject to that of the sick woman's removal to a better dwelling. The doctor, with ready kindness, undertook the task of house-hunting, for which I, a stranger to the place, was not so well qualified.

"He found for us a delightful cottage in the neighbourhood of Marseilles. There we three—my sister-in-law, my niece, and myself—lived for three months. At the end of that time the mother passed peacefully away, leaving her child to my care, with full confidence in my affection. Marie has been with with me ever since. Her joys have been my joys, her life has been my life. Do I not owe her much? That tear of hers—a precious pearl gathered by my heart—has been to it what the dewdrop of morn is to the unopened flower—expanding it for the entire day of its existence!"