The clutching fingers of one hand clasp about the slim envelope that contains the little photograph; the fingers of the other hand are plucking nervously at the blanket that is thrown over the dying man. There is another moment of silence, and then Abbot again asks him if he will have his brother brought to him. Hollins nods, and Abbot goes to the door and whispers a few words to the orderly. When he returns a feeble hand gropes its way towards him, and Hollins looks up appealingly.
"I'm so much weaker. I'm going fast. Would you shake hands, Abbot? What! Then you bear me no ill-will?"
"I do not, Hollins."
The clouding eyes seem to seek his wistfully, wonderingly.
"And yet—I wronged you so."
"Do not think of me. That—all came right."
"I know—I know. It is her heart I may have broken—Bessie's. My God! What could she have thought when he came back to her—after seeing you?"
"He told her her lover was dead. I made inquiries."
"Thank God for that! But all the same—she is sorrowing—suffering—and it's all my doing. I believe I could die content, almost happy, if I knew she had not—if I knew—I had not—brought her misery."
"Are you sure, Hollins?"