“The way was dark and thorny,” Wilford said, making her sit down where he could see her as he talked, “and only for God’s goodness I should have lost the path.  But he sent one Morris Grant to point the road, and I trust I am in it now.  I wanted to see you before I died, to tell you with my own lips how sorry I am for what I have made you suffer; but sorriest of all for sending Baby away.  Oh, Katy, you do not know how that rested upon my conscience, or how often in my sleep upon the tented plain or hillside I have felt again the touch of Baby’s arms and Baby’s cheek against my own as I felt it that day when I came home and took her from you.  Forgive me, Katy, that I robbed you of your child.”

He was growing very weak, and he looked so white and ghastly that Katy called for Bell, who came at once, as did her father, and the three stood together around the bedside of the dying, Katy with his cold hand in hers, and occasionally bending down to hear his whispered words of love and deep contrition.

“You will remember me, Katy,” he said, “but you cannot mourn for me always, and some time in the future you will cease to be my widow, and, Katy, I am willing.  I wanted to tell you this so that no thought of me should keep you from a life where you will be happier than I have made you.”

Wholly bewildered, Katy made no reply, and Wilford was silent a few moments, in which he seemed partially asleep.  Then rousing up, he said: 

“You wrote me once that Genevra was not dead.  Did you mean it, Katy?”

Frightened and bewildered, Katy turned appealingly to her father-in-law, who answered for her; “She meant it—­Genevra is not dead,” while a blood-red flush stained Wilford’s face, and his thin fingers beat the bedspread thoughtfully.

“I fancied once that she was here—­that she was the nurse the boys praise so much.  But that was a delusion,” he said, and without a thought of the result, Katy asked, impetuously:  “If she were here would you care to see her?”

There was a startled look on Wilford’s face, and he grasped Katy’s hand nervously, his frame trembling with a dread of the great shock which he felt impending over him.

“Is she here?  Was the nurse Genevra?” he asked, then as his mind went back to the past, he answered his own question by asserting:  “Marian Hazelton is Genevra.”

They did not contradict him, nor did he ask to see her.  With Katy there, he felt he had better not, but after a moment he continued:  “It is all so strange; I do not comprehend how it can be.  She has been kind to me.  Tell her I thank her for it.  I was unjust to her.  I have much to answer for.”

Between each word he uttered now there was a gasp for breath, and Father Cameron opened the window wide to admit the cool night air.  But nothing had power to revive him.  He was going very fast, Morris said, as he took his stand by the bedside and watched the approach of death.  There were no convulsive struggles, only heavy breathings, which grew farther and farther apart, until at last Wilford drew Katy close to him, and winding his arm around her neck, whispered: