"'You may not care to read this letter; yet, as it comes from a dying man, from one who may be dead before you open it, do not refuse to do so. You loved me once, and I was ungrateful and disobedient. For all these long years I have never asked your pardon; but I do so now. I am slowly but surely passing away from this world—I trust, through the marvellous mercy of God in Christ, to a better. If I have any injury to forgive, I do it freely. Forgive me, dear father, and forget my long hardness against you.
"'I will not say more, lest you should think that I write only to ask you to befriend my children. No man ever had more reason than I have to thank God for good children; no man ever deserved them less.
"'And now, father, I say farewell, and God bless you!'
"I will try to sign it, Clarice."
"You are very weak to-day," she said, startled to see how difficult he found it to hold the pen.
"I am," he said; "I think I am much weaker. Aymer, is there anything in that to which you object?"
"Nothing, father; I think you have done quite right."
"I have not said anything about your future," Mr. Egerton said, in a low voice.
"And I hope you won't, sir. From your father I would not accept sixpence to keep us all out of the poorhouse!"
"You would not ask for it; and I cannot blame you, Aymer. Yet, I beseech you—little as I have deserved of you, don't deny me my only request—if they offer to help you, don't refuse it. I know what you were saving for, and I know how your money is being spent. I cannot help it—I cannot even wish you not to do what you feel to be right; but don't fancy that I don't feel it. All for me! And I never worked nor cared for one of you. And once for all, children," (Helen had come in with some soup for him), "once for all, let me speak. You four—you poor, neglected, overworked children—have been living proofs to me that religion is not all imagination, which have outweighed the belief, or unbelief, of a lifetime. Children, I cannot think that my blessing will avail much, yet I must bless you, and ask you all to forgive me. I have no excuse to offer, Aymer," he added, turning a wistful look upon his eldest son. "You must forgive me freely, if you can forgive at all."
"Father," said Aymer, with a sob, "I do—I do, indeed! And you'll forgive me. I was very disrespectful."
"I have nothing to forgive. Never man had such children. I dare to believe that these is forgiveness for me with God, as you can forgive. You and—your mother: she forgave me, too. My poor Elise—my poor Elise!"