"He has told me wonderful and blessed news of you," Claire said, taking the chair that Mr. Chessney brought to the bedside. "I do not need to tell you how glad I was to hear it."
"No, you don't; that is true. You have given ample proof that nothing which could happen to a friend of yours could rejoice you more. I wish I had met you earlier; it would have made a difference, a great difference in my life. I did not know that religion meant much of anything. Harold, here, was of your mind, but he seemed exceptional—a kind of fanatic; I could not keep within sight of him. The other people whom I knew intimately, seemed to have very little to do with their religion. I beg your pardon, mother, but that was the way it seemed to me. There are different degrees, I suppose."
"Louis, you are talking too much," here interposed Mr. Chessney, as he brought the medicine to administer; "your pulse is rising."
"Never mind, it won't hurt me. It is almost over now; you know that, Chessney, as well as I do. And I have something to say, that for the good of all parties concerned, must be said now. Mother, I want you to know one thing: from words which you let fall yesterday, I have discovered that you have a mistaken idea about one matter. I am going to die, and I am glad of it. I have gone so far down hill, that to climb back again, for one so awfully bruised as I am, would be hard, very hard; perhaps the Lord sees that it would be impossible, and so gives me this easy way. But, mother, before I go, I want to tell you something which will remove from your mind a false impression. I saw my danger some time ago, and struggled for a way of escape. It was a weak way that I chose; God would not let me build on it. I fancied that if I could have Claire Benedict for my wife, I could be a good and true man. I implored her to help me in this way, and she utterly and hopelessly refused.
"You know why I am telling you this, but she does not, and I ask her to forgive me."
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE SUMMER'S STORY.
AFTER this Louis Ansted steadily failed. It had seemed as though he summoned all the strength left in his worn-out body for that one interview wherein he had resolved that his mother should know the truth from his lips.