She motioned the pastor to lead Robert away, and again laid Lucy upon the bed. The girl was almost insane with fever, and very ill. Christian went down stairs, and whispered to the clergyman to see that the young man left the neighborhood at once.
Robert obeyed them unresistingly. At the door he paused, and raised his weary eyes to Christian's face.
“It is all over, I know,” he said, slowly; “but I swear before heaven, Christian, that you shall never have to blush for me again.”
She laid her hand upon his and looked full in his face,
“I believe you,” she answered. “God bless you, Robert!”
Thus they parted; he to take his misery back into the busy world, and she to return to the bedside of the poor sufferer who lay moaning in the delirium of fever.
The next morning Lucy Dean's old father was found dead; but there was no need to tell the sick girl. Before night she was the mother of a child, and with its first breath she had closed her eyes upon this life—freed from its sorrows and pain.
CHAPTER III.
Six years had passed, and Christian Ftrd had reached her thirtieth birth-day. She was living still in that quiet cottage, but no longer alone. Lucy's child had been her constant charge, for with her last words the dying girl had exacted a pledge that she would never forsake it. She had reared it tenderly as if it had been her own, with no bitterness and no heartache, full of thank¬ fulness that she had now something to love.
With Robert Gray she had held no communi¬ cation since the night of his marriage. The old minister had informed him of his wife's dying wish, and he was only too happy that his child should be thus cared for.
The babe was now a bright, sturdy boy of six years, who well repaid the love which Christian lavished upon him. She never inquired concerning his father, though his name would at times reach her—for Robert Gray had begun to make a reputation in his profession.
The turning point in his life had been passed, and his future loomed out clear and undimmed. During all those years Christian's memory was the load-star that drew him on; and yet to his own heart he confessed that in the beginning his passion had not been the true love. Without that great trial in which she saved him from deeper sin, and a life of misery, the fascination of a season would have lost its power.
Even now he never dwelt upon that which might be. Christian had grown to be regarded by him as something too bright and pure for earthly thoughts and desires; and he could not believe that she had ever possessed for him any feeling stronger thnn the affection of a friend.
So life passed on with each, and the child, which might have been a bond of sympathy and union between them, seemed only to make their separation wider and more lasting.
One day Christian heard news, which for a time broke up the calm into which she had schooled herself. Mrs. Gray had returned to her house near the village. It was in the morning when Christian was told of it, and that evening the doctor called, on his way past the house, and informed her that Mrs. Gray was very ill with typhus fever, and almost destitute of attendance—for several of her servants had left the house through fear of the disease. What was worse, her son had sailed for Europe on important business only the week before, and probably the first letters he received would inform him of his mother's death.
“Are you going now to Mrs. Gray's house?” Christian asked.
“At once,” the physician said,
“Wait for me five minutes, and I will accompany you.”
“But have you no fear?—no-”
She only smiled, and checked his expostula¬ tions. Very soon she was ready to start; the boy left in charge of her faithful woman, and cautioned to be obedient.
When the carriage stopped before the door all Christian’s past sorrow rushed heavily over her soul; but she subdued the weakness and entered the house.
Mrs. Gray was delirious and recognized no one; but during that long illness Christian never forsook her post. At length the disease reached its crisis, and the sick woman fell into a deep, untroubled slumber, from which she woke, weak as an infant, bnt perfectly conscious.
It was several days before Christian permitted her to know that she was there, lest the excitement should prove injurious. On the third afternoon, she was watching her while she slept, when the sick woman suddenly woke and gazed full in her face.
Christian was sitting in the shadow, so that her features were partially hidden from view.
“I was dreaming,” murmured Mrs. Gray; “I thought she was here—Christian, you know— who are you?”
“I am Christian Ford,” she replied, softly, The sick woman pulled feebly at the curtains.
