“Oh, father, what a constant heart! Yet she fears that you can never forgive her.”
“In the passion of wounded love and anger, I swore that I would not, Arthur; but that was long ago, and in the face of death, how puerile these worldy resentments seem! Then, too, I believed she had wearied of me, believed me a fortune-hunter. Her wealth and her pride raised a wall between us. I could not dream that lips like hers could ever stoop to that word ‘forgive.’”
“Would you like to hear her say it now, my father?”
“No, Arthur, for it is needless. If she could come to me with another word—the dear word love—it would pay for all. How sweet to die with her hand in mine, her lips on my brow!”
Ah, what a love was here!—so patient under cruel wrong, so faithful, so forgiving! Arthur’s nature bowed in reverence to its holiness.
“She will come when you wish,” he said gently.
“Let it be now, Arthur.”
“But Doctor Deane said——” began his sister, uneasily.
“I can not permit any one to dictate in this. Every moment of suspense counts against my life,” the patient answered, firmly, and Arthur went.
It was but a little while before he returned with a drooping figure on his arm.