“But I tell you that Nora is as innocent as her own babe; and her character shall be cleared before the day is out!” exclaimed Hannah, tears of rage and shame welling to her eyes.

“Yes, honey, I dessay; and when it’s done I’ll come back and nuss her—­for nothing, too,” replied the old woman dryly, as she put on her bonnet and shawl.

This done she returned to the side of Hannah.

“Now, you know I have told you everything what to do for Nora; and by-and-by, I suppose, old Dinah will come, as old Jovial promised; and maybe she’ll stay and ’tend to the gal and the child; ’twon’t hurt her, you know, ’cause niggers aint mostly got much character to lose.  There, child, take up your money; I wouldn’t take it from you, no more’n I’d pick a pocket.  Good-by.”

Hannah would have thrown the money after the dame as she left the hut, but that Nora’s dulcet tones recalled her: 

“Hannah, don’t!”

She hurried to the patient’s bedside; there was another rising of the waves of life; Nora’s face, so dark and rigid a moment before, was now again soft and luminous.

“What is it, sister?” inquired Hannah, bending over her.

“Don’t be angry with her, dear; she did all she could for us, you know, without injuring herself—­and we had no right to expect that.”

“But—­her cruel words!”

“Dear Hannah, never mind; when you are hurt by such, remember our Saviour; think of the indignities that were heaped upon the Son of God; and how meekly he bore them, and how freely he forgave them.”

“Nora, dear, you do not talk like yourself.”

“Because I am dying, Hannah.  My boy came in with the rising sun, and I shall go out with its setting.”

“No, no, my darling—­you are much better than you were.  I do not see why you should die!” wept Hannah.

“But I do; I am not better, Hannah—­I have only floated back.  I am always floating backward and forward, towards life and towards death; only every time I float towards death I go farther away, and I shall float out with the day.”

Hannah was too much moved to trust herself to speak.

“Sister,” said Nora, in a fainter voice, “I have one last wish.”

“What is it, my own darling?”

“To see poor, poor Herman once more before I die.”

“To forgive him!  Yes, I suppose that will be right, though very hard,” sighed the elder girl.

“No, not to forgive him, Hannah—­for he has never willingly injured me, poor boy; but to lay my hand upon his head, and look into his eyes, and assure him with my dying breath that I know he was not to blame; for I do know it, Hannah.”

“Oh, Nora, what faith!” cried the sister.

The dying girl, who, to use her own words, was floating away again, scarcely heard this exclamation, for she murmured on in a lower tone, like the receding voice of the wind: 

“For if I do not have a chance of saying this to him, Hannah—­if he is left to suppose I went down to the grave believing him to be treacherous—­it will utterly break his heart, Hannah; for I know him, poor fellow—–­he is as sensitive as—­as—­any—.”  She was gone again out of reach.