He sprang up and seized her hands in his own. They were both old people, with but few years to live, yet at this moment they felt as if they were thirty years younger, and in the early prime of their days, when Sophy had disappeared, and the trouble first crushed them. If she had opened the door and entered among them with her pretty face and saucy manner, they would have seen her without a shadow or touch of surprise.
"Yes, I have heard of her," said Rachel breathlessly.
Andrew fell back in his chair, and his withered face went ashy pale. He only cried, as if to himself, "My God! my God!"
"But, Brother Andrew," continued Rachel in a forced, monotonous manner, "she is dead. Sophy died thirty years ago."
"Sophy died thirty years ago!" he repeated, gazing at her with dim eyes, from which all the light had faded.
"Very far away, in foreign parts," went on Rachel; "and before she died--the very day before she died--she wrote a letter to me, a long letter, that was never sent."
"Died thirty years ago," murmured Andrew, as if his brain could understand nothing more.
"Rachel," said Mary eagerly, "just sit down and tell us all about it. Have you brought the letter? Was she married? Who did she run away with? Be quiet, and tell."
"First," answered Rachel, "I want to know if you can forgive the man who persuaded her to run away, Brother Andrew?"
"Not if he were a mere boy, like our Mr. Philip, who did not know the harm he did?" urged Rachel.
"If he married her," he said hesitatingly.
Andrew's white head sank into his hands, and the tears trickled slowly down his face. Sophy had been married. For the sting of his sorrow had been the dread that his child had lost her innocence. The tears he shed were tears of gladness and thankfulness. True, she was dead; but he, too, would soon die, and he would meet her with no shame upon her head. He was not afraid of dying now, for the secret he dreaded had been revealed to him. Rachel drew out of her pocket Sophy's letter, and laid it on the little round table, where a candle was lighted.
"But who did she run away with?" asked Mary. "If you know she was married, you know who she was married to."
"Yes," she answered, sighing heavily; "he was no older than Mr. Philip, a mere boy, with no thought of the harm he did. He'd been visiting at the Hall, and saw our Sophy, and he ran away with her and married her. It was Mr. Martin himself."