Rose and Gertrude sprang forward and arranged pillows on the sofa for the dying woman, for such she seemed to be, and chafed her hands and temples, while John and Vincent dropped some wine between the pale lips.
Slowly she opened her eyes. Warmth! light! kind words! kind faces! Where was she?
Now Rose bends over her a face pitying as God's angels. The hollow eyes glare wildly upon it, a spasm passes over the pale face of the sufferer, and as she turns away to the pillow, she falters out,
"Oh! God forgive me! Mercy! mercy!"
"May He grant it!" said the shuddering Rose, hiding her face in her husband's bosom, as Markham's despairing, dying wail rang in her ears. "May God grant it, even at the eleventh hour."
When youth had passed, and, standing upon the threshhold of manhood, Charley looked out upon the tangled web of life, and saw (seemingly) the scales of eternal justice unevenly balanced, memory painted again, in freshened colors, that scene, and inscribed beneath it—
GOD IS JUST!
THE END.