"Bless her! bless her!" exclaimed the young man.
Hannah, whose eyes had never, during this interview, left the face of Nora, now murmured:
"She is reviving again; will you see her now?"
Herman humbly bowed his head and both approached the bed.
That power—what is it?—awe?—that power which subdues the wildest passions in the presence of death, calmed the grief of Herman as he stood over Nora.
She was too far gone for any strong human emotion; but her pale, rigid face softened and brightened as she recognized him, and she tried to extend her hand towards him.
He saw and gently took it, and stooped low to hear the sacred words her dying lips were trying to pronounce.
"Poor, poor boy; don't grieve so bitterly; it wasn't your fault," she murmured.
"Oh, Nora, your gentle spirit may forgive me, but I never can forgive myself for the reckless haste that has wrought all this ruin!" groaned Herman, sinking on his knees and burying his face on the counterpane, overwhelmed by grief and remorse for the great, unintentional wrong he had done; and by the impossibility of explaining the cause of his fatal mistake to this poor girl whose minutes were now numbered.
Softly and tremblingly the dying hand arose, fluttered a moment like a white dove, and then dropped in blessing on his head.