Softly and tremblingly the dying hand arose, fluttered a moment like a white dove, and then dropped in blessing on his head.

“May the Lord give the peace that he only can bestow; may the Lord pity you, comfort you, bless you and save you forever, Herman, poor Herman!”

A few minutes longer her hand rested on his head, and then she removed it and murmured: 

“Now leave me for a little while; I wish to speak to my sister.”

Herman arose and went out of the hut, where he gave way to the pent-up storm of grief that could not be vented by the awful bed of death.

Nora then beckoned Hannah, who approached and stooped low to catch her words.

“Sister, you would not refuse to grant my dying prayers, would you?”

“Oh, no, no, Nora!” wept the woman.

“Then promise me to forgive poor Herman the wrong that he has done us; he did not mean to do it, Hannah.”

“I know he did not, love; he explained it all to me.  The first wife was a bad woman who took him in.  He thought she had been killed in a railway collision, when he married you, and he never found out his mistake until she followed him home.”

“I knew there was something of that sort; but I did not know what.  Now, Hannah, promise me not to breathe a word to any human being of his second marriage with me; it would ruin him, you know, Hannah; for no one would believe but that he knew his first wife was living all the time.  Will you promise me this, Hannah?”

Even though she spoke with great difficulty, Hannah did not answer until she repeated the question.

Then with a sob and a gulp the elder sister said: 

“Keep silence, and let people reproach your memory, Nora?  How can I do that?”

“Can reproach reach me—­there?” she asked, raising her hand towards heaven.

“But your child, Nora; for his sake his mother’s memory should be vindicated!”

“At the expense of making his father out a felon?  No, Hannah, no; people will soon forget he ever had a mother.  He will only be known as Hannah Worth’s nephew, and she is everywhere respected.  Promise me, Hannah.”

“Nora, I dare not.”

“Sister, I am dying; you cannot refuse the prayer of the dying.”

Hannah was silent.

“Promise me! promise me! promise me! while my ears can yet take in your voice!” Nora’s words fell fainter and fainter; she was failing fast.

“Oh, Heaven, I promise you, Nora—­the Lord forgive me for it!” wept Hannah.

“The Lord bless you for it, Hannah.”  Her voice sunk into murmurs and the cold shades of death crept over her face again; but rallying her fast failing strength she gasped: 

“My boy, quick!  Oh, quick, Hannah!”

Hannah lifted the babe from his nest and held him low to meet his mother’s last kiss.

“There, now, lay him on my arm, Hannah, close to my left side, and draw my hand over him; I would feel him near me to the very last.”