Enclosing the note alluded to in this letter, Marston sealed, and, ringing for an attendant, despatched it.
"Better to do right late than never," he murmured, as he leaned pensively back in his chair.
"Let what will come of it, I shall feel better, for I will gain my own self-respect, and have an inward assurance that I have done right,—more than I have for a long time had, in regard to this matter at least."
Relieved in mind, Marston commenced looking over some papers in reference to matters of business then on hand, and was soon so much absorbed in them, that the subject which had lately filled his thoughts faded entirely therefrom. Some one opened the door, and he turned to see who was entering. In an instant he was on his feet. It was Arnest.
The face of the latter was pale and agitated, and his lips quivered. He came forward hurriedly, extending his hand, not to grasp that of his old friend, but to hold up his own letter that had been just returned to him.
"Marston," he said, huskily, "did I send you this note?"
"You did," was the firm but mild answer.
"Thus I cancel it!" And he tore it into shreds, and scattered them on the floor. "Would that its contents could be as easily obliterated from your memory!" he added, in a most earnest voice.
"They are no longer there, my friend," returned Marston, with visible emotion, now grasping the hand of Arnest. "You have wiped them out."
Arnest returned the pressure with both hands, his eyes fixed on those of Marston, until they grew so dim that he could no longer read the old familiar lines and forgiving look.