Mr. Fabian went to meet her, saying softly:
"He has called for you, my dear! The only word he has spoken since he recovered consciousness was your name."
"So Uncle Clarence told me," she said, in a broken voice.
"Come to him now," said Fabian, leading her to the bedside.
She sank on her knees and took the hand of the dying man and kissed it, pleading:
"Grandfather, dear grandfather, I love you. I am grieved at having offended you. Will you forgive me—now?"
He made several painful efforts to answer her, before he uttered the few disconnected words:
"Yes—forgive—you—Cora."
She bathed his hand with her tears. All on her part also was forgotten now—all the harshness and despotism of years was forgotten now, and nothing was remembered but the gray-haired man, always gray-haired in her knowledge of him, who had protected her orphanage and given her a home and an education. She knelt there, holding his hand, and was presently touched and comforted because the lingers of that hand closed on hers with a loving pressure that they had never given her in all her life before. That was the last sign of consciousness he gave for many hours.
Mr. Fabian took the doctor aside.