“Will it be safe to tell his mother so?” I asked.

“Yes:  I think you may.”

I hastened to her room.

“Your little darling is not dead, Catherine.  He is coming to.”

She threw herself off the bed at my feet, caught them round with her arms, and cried—­

“I will forgive him.  I will do anything you like.  I forgive George Everard.  I will go and ask my father to forgive me.”

I lifted her in my arms—­how light she was!—­and laid her again on the bed, where she burst into tears, and lay sobbing and weeping.  I went to the other room.  Little Gerard opened his eyes and closed them again, as I entered.  The doctor had laid him in his own crib.  He said his pulse was improving.  I beckoned to Thomas.  He followed me.

“She wants to ask you to forgive her,” I said.  “Do not, in God’s name, wait till she asks you, but go and tell her that you forgive her.”

“I dare not say I forgive her,” he answered.  “I have more need to ask her to forgive me.”

I took him by the hand, and led him into her room.  She feebly lifted her arms towards him.  Not a word was said on either side.  I left them in each other’s embrace.  The hard rocks had been struck with the rod, and the waters of life had flowed forth from each, and had met between.

I have more than once known this in the course of my experience—­the ice and snow of a long estrangement suddenly give way, and the boiling geyser-floods of old affection rush from the hot deeps of the heart.  I think myself that the very lastingness and strength of animosity have their origin sometimes in the reality of affection:  the love lasts all the while, freshly indignant at every new load heaped upon it; till, at last, a word, a look, a sorrow, a gladness, sets it free; and, forgetting all its claims, it rushes irresistibly towards its ends.  Thus was it with Thomas and Catherine Weir.

When I rejoined Dr Duncan, I found little Gerard asleep, and breathing quietly.

“What do you know of this sad business, Mr Walton?” said the doctor.

“I should like to ask the same question of you,” I returned.  “Young Tom told me that his sister had murdered the child.  That is all I know.”

“His father told me the same; and that is all I know.  Do you believe it?”

“At least we have no evidence about it.  It is tolerably certain neither of those two could have been present.  They must have received it by report.  We must wait till she is able to explain the thing herself.”

“Meantime,” said Dr Duncan, “all I believe is, that she struck the child, and that he fell upon the fender.”