If Jessie were beautiful and good, she would make the life of William Bellenger happier than if she were otherwise; and this was all that Ellen asked or wished.
Hidden away in a little rosewood box, which Jessie had given her, was a blurred and blotted letter, which she had written at intervals, as her failing strength would permit. It was her farewell to William, and she would trust it to no messenger but Jessie.
"Tell them all to go out," she said, as the shadows stretched farther and farther across the floor, and she knew it was growing late. "Tell them to leave us together once more, just as we used to be."
Her request was granted, and then laying her hand upon her pillow, she said:
"Lie down beside me, Jessie, and put your arms around my neck while I tell you how I love you. It wasn't my way to talk much, Jessie, and when you used to say so often that I was very dear to you, I only kissed you back, and did not tell you how full my heart was of love. Dear Jessie, don't cry. What makes you? Are you sorry I am going to die?"
A passionate hug was Jessie's answer, and Ellen continued:
"It's right, darling, that I should go, for neither of us could be quite happy in knowing that another shared the love we coveted for ourselves. Forgive me, Jessie, I never meant to interfere, and when I'm dead, you won't let it cast a shadow between you that he loved me a little, too."
"I do not understand you," said Jessie, "I love nobody but father,—no man, I mean.
"Oh, Jessie, don't profess to be ignorant of my meaning," said Ellen. "It may be wrong for me to speak of it, but at the very last, I cannot forbear telling you how willingly I gave William up to you."
"William!" Jessie exclaimed. "I never loved William Bellenger,—never could love him. What do you mean!"