estimony to their real
union--their real spiritual compatibility. "It's all right. It
doesn't make any difference. You've been very good to me. I wouldn't
have been satisfied to have you lose your fortune. It couldn't be that
way. I've been a lot better satisfied as it is. It's been hard, but,
dear, everything is hard at times." She paused.

"No," he said. "It wasn't right. The thing wasn't worked out right
from the start; but that wasn't your fault. I'm sorry. I wanted to
tell you that. I'm glad I'm here to do it."

"Don't talk that way, Lester--please don't," she pleaded.
"It's all right. You needn't be sorry. There's nothing to be sorry
for. You have always been so good to me. Why, when I think--" she
stopped, for it was hard for her to speak. She was choking with
affection and sympathy. She pressed his hands. She was recalling the
house he took for her family in Cleveland, his generous treatment of
Gerhardt, all the long ago tokens of love and kindness.

"Well, I've told you now, and I feel better. You're a good woman,
Jennie, and you're kind to come to me this way." I loved you. I love
you now. I want to tell you that. It seems strange, but you're the
only woman I ever did love truly. We should never have parted.

Jennie caught her breath. It was the one thing she had waited for
all these years--this testimony. It was the one thing that could
make everything right--this confession of spiritual if not
material union. Now she could live happily. Now die so. "Oh, Lester,"
she exclaimed with a sob, and pressed his hand. He returned the
pressure. There was a little silence. Then he spoke again.

"How are the two orphans?" he asked.

"Oh, they're lovely," she answered, entering upon a detailed
description of their diminutive personalities. He listened
comfortably, for her voice was soothing to him. Her whole personality
was grateful to him. When it came time for her to go he seemed
desirous of keeping her.

"Going, Jennie?"

"I can stay just as well as not, Lester," she volunteered. "I'll
take a room. I can send a note out to Mrs. Swenson. It will be all
right."

"You needn't do that," he said, but she could see that he wanted
her, that he did not want to be alone.

From that time on until the hour of his death she was not out of
the hotel.

CHAPTER LXII

The end came after four days during which Jennie was by his bedside
almost constantly. The nurse in charge welcomed her at first as a
relief a