Algernon took his seat on the bed without speaking.  He perceived that time had only increased the bitterness of his brother’s caustic temper.

“Algernon,” said the miser, “I will not enter into a detail of the past.  I robbed you of your share of my father’s property to gratify my love of money; and I married your mistress out of revenge.  Both of these deeds have proved a curse to me—­I cannot enjoy the one, and I loathe the other.  I am dying; I cannot close my eyes in peace with these crimes upon my conscience.  Give me your hand, brother, and say that you forgive me; and I will make a just restitution of the money, and leave you in the undisturbed possession of the wife.”

He laughed, that horrid fiendish laugh.  Algernon shrunk back with strong disgust, and relinquished the hand which no longer sought his grasp.

“Well, I see how it is.  There are some natures that cannot amalgamate.  You cannot overcome the old hate; but say that you forgive me; it is all I ask.”

“If you can forgive yourself, Mark, I forgive you; and I pray that God may do the same.”

“That leaves the case doubtful; however, it is of no use forcing nature.  We never loved each other.  The soil of the heart has been too much corrupted by the leaven of the world, to nourish a new growth of affection.  We have lived enemies—­we cannot part friends; but take this in payment of the debt I owe you.”

He drew from beneath his pillow a paper, which he placed in his brother’s hand.  It was a draft upon his banker for ten thousand pounds, payable at sight.  “Will that satisfy you for all you lost by me?”

“Money cannot do that.”

“You allude to my wife.  I saved you from a curse by entailing it upon myself; for which service I at least deserve your thanks.”

“What has proved a curse to you would have been to me the greatest earthly blessing.  I freely forgive you for wronging me out of my share of the inheritance, but for robbing me of Elinor, I cannot.”

He turned from the bed with the tears in his eyes, and was about to quit the room.  The miser called him back.  “Do not be such a fool as to refuse the money, Algernon; the lady I will bequeath to you as a legacy when I am gone.”

“He is mad!” muttered Algernon, “no sane man could act this diabolical part.  It is useless to resent his words.  He must soon answer for them at a higher tribunal.  Yes—­I will forgive him—­I will not add to his future misery.”

He came back to the bed, and taking the burning hand of the miser, said in a broken voice, “Brother, I wronged you when I believed that you were an accountable being; I no longer consider you answerable for your actions, and may God view your unnatural conduct to me in the same light; by the mercy which He ever shows to His erring creatures.  I forgive you for the past.”  The stony heart of the miser seemed touched, but his pride was wounded.  “Mad—­mad,” he said; “so you look upon me as mad.  The world is full of maniacs; I do not differ from my kind.  But take the paper, and let there be peace between you and me.”