"Oh, Christie, you know not what you ask!"
"Sibyl, do you not love Willard still?"
"Oh, I do—I do! Heaven forgive me, I do!" she said, passionately.
"And he loves you. Willard, come here—take Sibyl's hand. Now, Sibyl, promise when I am gone to be his wife."
There was a fierce struggle in the passionate heart of Sibyl—a last struggle between love and pride, and her burning sense of the great wrong he had done her. With her face bowed, her whole frame quivering, she did not look up—would not speak, until the little hand of Christie fell imploringly on her head.
"Sibyl, I cannot go until you promise me this. Oh, Sibyl, I love you both so much that I would willingly die to make you happy. You love one another still; why should this one fault, committed in a moment of thoughtlessness make your whole future lives miserable? Oh, Sibyl, we have all so much to be forgiven, can you not pardon this?"
Still no reply
"Sibyl, I am dying! if I can forgive the wrong done me, why—oh, why cannot you? Oh, Sibyl, cast out this false pride that will make you wretched all your life, and make my last moments happy by this promise. Oh, Sibyl, dearest Sibyl, consent!"
"Christie, you have conquered." said Sibyl, as she kissed through her fast-falling tears, the pale brow of the dying girl. Then rising, she placed her hand in Willard's, and said, with sad earnestness:
"Willard, we have both erred; let us forget the past. I love you still, and forgive you all."