The little face was all aflame, and the large eyes burning.

“Hush! hush!” I said, drawing her head down upon my shoulder again.

“Then there is Mr. Foster,” she continued, almost sobbing; “he torments me so.  He likes to make fun of me, and tease me, till I can’t bear to go into his room.  Father used to say it was wicked to hate anybody, and I didn’t hate anybody then.  I was so happy.  But you’d hate Mr. Foster, and Mrs. Foster, if you only knew them.”

“Why?” I asked in a whisper.  My voice sounded husky to me, and my throat felt parched.  The child’s impotent rage and hatred struck a slumbering chord within me.

“Oh! they are horrid in every way,” she said, with emphasis; “they frighten me.  He is fond of tormenting any thing because he’s cruel.  We had a cruel boy in our school once, so I know.  But they are very poor—­poor as Job, Mrs. Wilkinson says, and I’m glad.  Aren’t you glad?”

The question jarred in my memory against a passionate craving after revenge, which had died away in the quiet and tranquillity of Sark.  A year ago I should have rejoiced in any measure of punishment or retribution, which had overtaken those who had destroyed my happiness.  But it was not so now; or perhaps I should rather own that it was only faintly so.  It had never occurred to me that my flight would plunge him into poverty similar to my own.  But now that the idea was thrust upon me.  I wondered how I could have overlooked this necessary consequence of my conduct.  Ought I to do any thing for him?  Was there any thing I could do to help him?”

“He is ill, too,” pursued the child; “I heard him say once to Mrs. Foster, he knew he should die like a dog.  I was a little tiny bit sorry for him then; for nobody would like to die like a dog, and not go to heaven, you know.  But I don’t care now, I shall never see them again—­never, never!  I could jump out of my skin for joy.  I sha’n’t even know when he is dead, if he does die like a dog.”

Ill! dead!  My heart beat faster and faster as I pondered over these words.  Then I should be free indeed; his death would release me from bondage, from terror, from poverty—­those three evils which dogged my steps.  I had never ventured to let my thoughts run that way, but this child’s prattling had forced them into it.  Richard Foster ill—­dying!  O God! what ought I to do?

I could not make myself known to him; that was impossible.  I would ten thousand times sooner die myself than return to him.  He was not alone either.  But yet there came back to my mind the first days when I knew him, when he was all tenderness and devotion to me, declaring that he could find no fault in his girl-wife.  How happy I had been for a little while, exchanging my stepmother’s harshness for his indulgence!  He might have won my love; he had almost won it.  But that happy, golden time was gone, and could never come back to me.  Yet my heart was softened toward him, as I thought of him ill, perhaps dying.  What could I do for him, without placing myself in his power?