So the thing was done. That afternoon the lawyer came to receive instructions, and the next morning the will was presented and duly signed.
When the lawyer was gone, Jack turned feebly to “Cobbler” Horn.
“There’s just one thing more,” he said. “I must see her, and tell her about it myself.”
“Would she come” asked “Cobbler” Horn. “And do you think it would be well?”
“‘Come’? She would come, if I were dying at North Pole. And there will be no peace for me, till I have heard from her own lips that she has forgiven me.”
“Ah!” ejaculated “Cobbler” Horn. “Do you say so?”
“Yes, cousin; I feel that it’s no use to ask pardon of God, till Bertha has forgiven me. You know what I mean.”
“Yes,” said “Cobbler” Horn gently; “I know what you mean, and I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you!” said Jack, fervently. “But it mustn’t be by letter. You must go and see her yourself, if you will; and I don’t think you will refuse.”
“Cobbler” Horn shrank, at first, from so delicate and difficult a mission, for which he pronounced himself utterly unfit. But the pathetic appeal of the dark, hollow eyes, which gleamed upon him from the pillow, ultimately prevailed.