“God grant that you have not taken the infection!”
“I was just thinking that if I should take it—and it is very possible that I may do so—it would be well for me to speak a few words to you before we are separated by illness or—or that in which illness might end.” Isa had been silently praying for courage to make one effort more—it might be the last—to persuade her unhappy brother to act a just and honourable part. “I have told you our father’s last commands, oh, let me join to them a sister’s entreaties. Gaspar, act towards Cora Madden as you will wish that you had acted when you both stand before the judgment-seat of God.” Isa spoke with emotion, and the feverish flush on her cheek grew brighter than before.
“What would you have me do?” asked Gaspar, in a low, agitated voice.
“What conscience bids, what God’s Word directs,” replied Isa,—“make restitution.”
Gaspar rose and strode once or twice up and down the apartment with his hands behind him; his brow furrowed with an anxious frown. Presently he stopped short before his sister, whose soul was rising in silent supplication for her tempted brother.
“Isa, you ask too much. To refund that money would be to acknowledge that it never ought to have been mine.”
“But how will you then dare to meet face to face with one whom, I fear, you have wronged?”
“I’ll not meet Cora Madden—I’ll leave this place—I’ll go abroad!” said Gaspar hurriedly, giving voice to a thought which had often recurred to his mind.
“And leave me?” cried Isa reproachfully.