“Hilda,” moaned a feeble voice, “won’t you come?”
“I am here,” replied the young girl, passing into the room, and bending over the invalid. “Tell me what I can do for you, and it shall be done gladly.”
And thus the two whose heredity and paths in life had so contrasted met for the last time upon earth.
“Forgive me, oh, forgive me for my cruelty to you!” implored the fast failing voice slowly and falteringly.
“I do forgive you, freely and fully, as I hope to be forgiven.”
“I am almost gone,” whispered Jerusha. “I was unjust to you as well as cruel. Your Aunt Ashley left—two letters—for you. I read them—and destroyed—one. All in the cottage—was—yours,—there was money—I kept—every penny—of it—safely for you. It—is with the—letter, and—her pen—in the—the—”
Eagerly as Hilda listened, she heard no more. Jerusha’s lips were closed in death.
CHAPTER XIII—HILDA BY THE MERRYMAN FIRESIDE
Excepting Erma, who was growing into healthy, attractive young womanhood, Hilda found no change in the Merryman household.
Her room was just as she left it the morning she and Paul set out for Ohio. She was glad to be again in it, and was as tenderly welcomed to the home as if she were a beloved daughter, and dropped naturally into the place she had once filled.