The sick man turned restlessly.
"I must see him," he moaned; "there is something that I must say to him, and to you—Barbara." He hesitated before speaking her name—it was the first time he had called her that.
"But, Mr. Flint," remonstrated Barbara, in alarm, "he cannot come here, he must not put himself in danger; besides, there will be plenty of time when you are well again."
"That time may not come. I must tell him before it is too late."
"But not at the risk of his life. Is not his life more to you—and to me—than our own?"
"Yes," was the feeble reply, and then he muttered: "My miserable life."
"There," said Barbara, soothingly, "we have talked more than is for your good." She started to leave the room, but he held out his hand appealingly.
"Wait," he said. "If I cannot tell him I must say it to you. I have guessed the secret, yours and Will's. It was that more than anything else that made me preach as I did. From childhood to manhood I fear I have wronged him. I was narrow—blind. I have wronged you, too, and yet you came to save me. For Will's sake forgive me, Barbara, and if I never see him again tell him that I lived to realize my sin, tell him that I have suffered—" The minister stopped abruptly and listened. There was a quick step in the hall below. Barbara turned quickly toward the door, and Mr. Flint dropped his outstretched hand. Some one was running up the stairs. Barbara half-guessed the truth and was transfixed with horror.
"Will!" she screamed, as he appeared in the doorway. "Don't come in—go quick—think of the danger!"