“You have much to forgive me,” said the latter slowly.
“Then take my hand, and let us forgive, if there is any call for such a proceeding on either side. Vine, old friend, how you must have suffered, and I not there to say one kindly word!”
“Van Heldre,” said Vine slowly, as, holding his friend’s hand, he slowly seated himself by the bed’s head, “did you ever know what it was to pray for death?”
“Thank Heaven, no,” replied Van Heldre with a slight shudder, for there was something weird and strange about his old friend’s manner. “Since I have regained my senses I have prayed to live. There seems so much to be done at times like this. But, Vine, old friend, what can I say to you? For pity’s sake don’t look at me like that!”
“Look at you—like that?” said Vine slowly.
“Yes; your eyes seem so full of reproach. I tell you, my dear old fellow, that I would rather have died than that poor boy should have been prosecuted for my sake.”
“I know everything,” said Vine slowly. “I do not reproach you, John. I reproach myself, and at times it seems more than I can bear.”
“Louise,” said Van Heldre softly.
“Louise? Ah, Louise!” said Vine eagerly. “Without her I must have died.”
The two old friends sat, hand clasped in hand, in perfect silence for quite an hour before there was a gentle tap at the door, and Madelaine entered.