“Very well, very well:  go back to your own room and sleep.  I will try not to groan so loud.”

He ended his speech in a less rough tone, for he observed that the child had come to see him, though she was ill, with bare feet and only in her night-shift, and was trembling with cold, excitement, and grief.  Mary, however, stood still, shook her head, and replied, still weeping though less violently: 

“No, no.  I shall stop here and not go away till you tell me that you—­ Oh, God, you never can forgive me, but still I must say it, I must.”

With a sudden impulse she ran straight up to him, threw her arms round his neck, laid her head against his, and then, as he did not immediately push her away, kissed his cheeks and brow.

At this a strange feeling came over him; he himself did not know what it was, but it was as though something within him yielded and gave way, and the moisture which felt warm in his eyes and on his cheeks was not from the child’s tears but his own.  This lasted through many minutes of silence; but at last he took the little one’s arms from about his neck, saying: 

“How hot your hands and your cheeks are, poor thing!  You are feverish, and the night air blows in chill—­you will catch fresh cold by this mad behavior.”

He had controlled his tears with difficulty, and as he spoke, in broken accents, he carefully wrapped her in the black robe he had thrown off and said kindly: 

“Now, be calm, and I will try to compose myself.  You did not mean any harm, and I owe you no grudge.  Now go; you will not feel the draught in the anteroom with that wrap on.  Go; be quick.”

“No, no,” she eagerly replied.  “You must let me say what I have to say or I cannot sleep.  You see I never thought of hurting you so dreadfully, so horribly—­never, never!  I was angry with you, to be sure, because—­ but when I spoke I really and truly did not think of you, but only of poor Paula.  You do not know how good she is, and grandfather was so fond of her before you came home; and he was lying there and going to die so soon, and I knew that he believed Paula to be a thief and a liar, and it seemed to me so horrible, so unbearable to see him close his eyes with such a mistake in his mind, such an injustice!—­Not for his sake, oh no! but for Paula’s; so then I—­Oh Orion! the Merciful Saviour is my witness, I could not help it; if I had had to die for it I could not have helped it!  I should have died, if I had not spoken!”

“And perhaps it was well that you spoke,” interrupted the young man, with a deep sigh.  “You see, child, your lost father’s miserable brother is a ruined man and it matters little about him; but Paula, who is a thousand times better than I am, has at least had justice done her; and as I love her far more dearly than your little heart can conceive of, I will gladly be friends with you again:  nay, I shall be more fond of you than ever.  That is nothing great or noble, for I need love—­much love to make life tolerable.  The best love a man may have I have forfeited, fool that I am! and now dear, good little soul, I could not bear to lose yours!  So there is my hand upon it; now, give me another kiss and then go to bed and sleep.”