Marian was now the weaker of the two, and it was Katy’s task to comfort her, as, sinking back in her chair, she sobbed: 

“He did love me once.  He acknowledged it at the last, before them all, his wife, his father and his sister.  Do they know?” she suddenly asked, and when assured that they did, she relapsed into a silent mood, while Katy stole quietly out and left her there alone.

Half an hour later a female form passed hurriedly through the hall and across the threshold into the chamber where the dead man lay.  There was no one with him now, and Marian was free to weep out the pent-up sorrow of her life, which she did with choking sobs and passionate words poured into the ear deaf now to every human sound.  A step upon the floor startled her, and turning around she stood face to face with Wilford’s father, who was regarding her with a look which she mistook for one of reproof and displeasure that she should be there thus.

“Forgive me,” she said, wringing her hands together.  “I know how you despise me, but he was my husband once, and surely now that he is dead you will not begrudge me a few last moments with him for the sake of the days when he loved me.”

There were many tender chords in the heart of Father Cameron, and offering Marian his hand, he said: 

“Far be it from me to refuse you this privilege.  I pity you, Genevra, for I believe he dealt unjustly by you—­but I will not censure him now that he is gone.  He was my only boy.  Oh, Wilford, Wilford.  You have left me very lonely.”

He released her hand, and Marian fled away, meeting next with Bell, who felt that she must speak to her, but was puzzled what to say.  Bell could not define her feelings toward Marian, or why she shrank from approaching her.  It was not pride, but rather a feeling of prejudice, as if Marian were in some way to blame for all the trouble which had come to them, while her peculiar position as the divorced wife of her brother made it the more embarrassing.  But she could not resist the mute pleading of the eyes lifted so tearfully to her, as if asking for a nod of recognition, and stopping before her she said, softly: 

“Genevra.”

That was all, but it made Genevra’s tears flow in torrents, and she involuntarily held her hand out to Bell, who took it, and holding it between her own, said: 

“You were very kind to my brother.  I thank you for it, and will tell my mother, who will feel so grateful to you.”

This was a good deal for Bell to say, and after it was said, she hastened away, while Marian went on her daily round of duties, speaking softer, if possible, to her patients that day, and causing them to wonder what had come over that sweet face to make it so white and tear-stained.  That night in Marian’s room Katy sat and listened to what she did not before know of the strange story kept from her so long.  Candidly Marian confirmed all Wilford had told, breathing no word of blame against him now that he was dead, only stating facts, and leaving Katy to draw her own conclusions.  Herself she censured much for fostering that fondness for admiration so irritating to a jealous man like Wilford.