A smile came upon Wetherell's face, but Mr. Merrill could not look at it.
“You have made me very happy,” said the storekeeper, tremulously. “I—I have no right to be proud—I have taken his money—he has supported my daughter and myself all these years. But he had never asked me to—to do anything, and I liked to think that he never would.”
Mr. Merrill could not speak. The tears were streaming down his cheeks.
“I want you to promise me, Mr. Merril!” he went on presently, “I want you to promise me that you will never speak to Jethro, of this, or to my daughter, Cynthia.”
Mr. Merrill merely nodded his head in assent. Still he could not speak.
“They might think it was this that caused my death. It was not. I know very well that I am worn out, and that I should have gone soon in any case. And I must leave Cynthia to him. He loves her as his own child.”
William Wetherell, his faith in Jethro restored, was facing death as he had never faced life. Mr. Merrill was greatly affected.
“You must not speak of dying, Wetherell,” said he, brokenly. “Will you forgive me?”
“There is nothing to forgive, now that you have explained matters, Mr. Merrill” said the storekeeper, and he smiled again. “If my fibre had been a little tougher, this thing would never have happened. There is only one more request I have to make. And that is, to assure Mr. Duncan, from me, that I did not detain him purposely.”
“I will see him on my way to Boston,” answered Mr. Merrill.