“Thank God.  I forgive his father now with all my heart.  I feel it easier since I saw how wicked I could be myself.  And I feel it easier, too, that I have not long to live.  I forgive him with all my heart, and I will take no revenge.  I will not tell one who he is.  I have never told any one yet.  But I will tell you.  His name is George Everard—­Captain Everard.  I came to know him when I was apprenticed at Addicehead.  I would not tell you, sir, if I did not know that you will not tell any one.  I know you so well that I will not ask you not.  I saw him yesterday, and it drove me wild.  But it is all over now.  My heart feels so cool now.  Do you think God will forgive me?”

Without one word of my own, I took out my pocket Testament and read these words:—­

“For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you.”

Then I read to her, from the seventh chapter of St Luke’s Gospel, the story of the woman who was a sinner and came to Jesus in Simon’s house, that she might see how the Lord himself thought and felt about such.  When I had finished, I found that she was gently weeping, and so I left her, and resumed my place beside the boy.  I told Thomas that he had better not go near her just yet.  So we sat in silence together for a while, during which I felt so weary and benumbed, that I neither cared to resume my former train of thought, nor to enter upon the new one suggested by the confession of Catherine.  I believe I must have fallen asleep in my chair, for I suddenly returned to consciousness at a cry from Gerard.  I started up, and there was the child fast asleep, but standing on his feet in his crib, pushing with his hands from before him, as if resisting some one, and crying—­

“Don’t.  Don’t.  Go away, man.  Mammy!  Mr Walton!”

I took him in my arms, and kissed him, and laid him down again; and he lay as still as if he had never moved.  At the same moment, Thomas came again into the room.

“I am sorry to be so troublesome, sir,” he said; “but my poor daughter says there is one thing more she wanted to say to you.”

I returned at once.  As soon as I entered the room, she said eagerly:—­

“I forgive him—­I forgive him with all my heart; but don’t let him take Gerard.”

I assured her I would do my best to prevent any such attempt on his part, and making her promise to try to go to sleep, left her once more.  Nor was either of the patients disturbed again during the night.  Both slept, as it appeared, refreshingly.

In the morning, that is, before eight o’clock, the old doctor made his welcome appearance, and pronounced both quite as well as he had expected to find them.  In another hour, he had sent young Tom to take my place, and my sister to take his father’s.  I was determined that none of the gossips of the village should go near the invalid if I could help it; for, though such might be kind-hearted and estimable women,