Maude laughed and blushed, and the Squire left her and turned to George.
"How is Rupert, sir?"
"He has been famous until half-an-hour ago. Since then there has been a change. You had better go up at once; he has been asking for you and Maude. I have sent for King."
George drew his wife's hand within his arm, and led her upstairs. No one was in the room with Rupert, except Mrs. Chattaway. He never moved or stirred, as they advanced and bent over him, Maude throwing off her bonnet; he only gazed up at their faces with a happy smile.
Maude's eyes were swimming; George was startled. Surely death was even now upon him. It had come closer in this short interval between Squire Trevlyn's departure from the room and his return.
Rupert lay passively, his wasted hands in theirs. Maude was the first to give way. "My darling brother! I did not expect to find you like this."
"I am going on before, Maude," he breathed, his voice so low they had to stoop to catch it. "You will come later."
A cry from Mrs. Chattaway interrupted him. "Oh, Rupert, say you forgive the past! You have not said it. You must not die with unforgiveness in your heart."
He looked at her wonderingly; a look which seemed to ask if she had forgotten his assertion only an hour ago. He laid his hands feebly together holding them raised. "God bless and forgive all who may have been unkind to me, as I forgive them—as I have forgiven them long ago. God bless and forgive us all, and take us when this life is over to our heavenly home; for the sake of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ."
"Amen!" said the Squire.