“Oh, Heavenly Father, forgive him, forgive, and receive him and bless him, for our Savior’s sake,” she cried over and over again, in the earnestness of her supplication.
“Amen, Amen,” he breathed, at every interval of her prayer.
“Oh, my love, my love! Christ will atone to God for all your sins. And I—I will do all I can to atone to man!” wept Elfie, as she arose from her knees.
The surgeon came hurrying to the scene. But a single glance at the dying man assured him that all his own medical skill, all the world’s medical skill would never succeed in saving him now.
Albert Goldsborough turned his fading eyes on his wife, and feebly tried to raise his hand. She understood him and bowed her head, and took his hand and passed it around her neck.
“Elfie—forgive—forgive—” he breathed and then failed.
“Oh, my dear love, I have nothing to forgive,” she wept, pressing her lips to his clammy brow.
“Bless you—Elfie—Bless——” he panted, and stopped.
His eyes glazed and his head dropped.
He was dead, in Elfie’s arms.