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.