day by day, until sickness
seized him. The doctor came, and told him he had but a short time to live.
Mr. Crawford heard the verdict with composure. The Puritan blood in his
veins led him to meet death as he would meet any enemy in life. But he
would do justice to his daughter before he died. Calling Joyce to him, he
took her hand in his, and said: "Joyce, you have been all that a daughter
should be to me, but to you I have been a hard, cruel father."

"No, no, you have been the kindest of fathers," she cried, her tears
falling fast. "Father, don't talk so, or you will break my heart."

"Listen, Joyce. I now know how much suffering I have caused you. I drove
from you the man you loved. Do you still love him, Joyce?"

"Father, I love him, I shall always love him, but I have been true to my
promise. I--"

"There, child," broke in Mr. Crawford, "say no more. I know how true you
have been, how sacred you have kept your word, while I--oh, forgive me,
Joyce!"

"Don't, father, don't, you only did what you thought was right."

"But Pennington, Joyce--has he been true all these years?"

"I charged him not to see or write to me until I bade him, and that was to
be when I had your free and full consent. Father, have I that consent
now?"

"Yes, yes, tell him to come."

With her feet winged with love Joyce flew to send the glad message. But
that night Mr. Crawford became much worse. It was doubtful if he would
live until Calhoun could arrive.

Once more the sun is sinking in the west; again is Calhoun galloping up
the road which leads to the Crawford residence. But Joyce is not standing
at the gate watching for him. The little cloud of dust grows larger and
larger, but it is not noticed. In the house a life is ebbing away--going
out with the sun. Calhoun is met by Abe, who takes his horse, and points
to the house. "Massa Crawford dyin'," is all he said.

He is met at the door by Joyce. "Come, father wants to see you," she says,
and leads him into the chamber where the dying man lies.

"Father, here is Calhoun," she sobbed.

Mr. Crawford opened his eyes, stretched forth a trembling hand, and it was
grasped by Calhoun. In that hour all animosity, all bitterness, was
forgotten.

Joyce came and stood by the side of her lover. Her father took her hand
and placed it in that of Calhoun. "God bless you both, my children," he
whispered. "Forgive!"

"There is nothing to forgive," replied Calhoun, in a choking voice.

A lo