re good boys. I've
hardly deserved it of them,"--pulling at the quilt-fringe. "I've been a
glum, unsociable old dog. I might have made their lives cheerfuller.
They're going West: Bill and John to Chicago, and Jem to St. Louis: just
waiting for you to be better."

"I am sorry."

I was sorry. The thought of their earnest, honest, downright faces came
to me now with a new meaning, somehow: I could enter into their life
now: it was an eager affection I was ready to give them, that they could
not understand: I had wakened up, so thirsty for love, and to love.

"Yes, Rob did it,"--lingering on the name tenderly. "It's a snug home
for us: we'll have to rough it outside a little, but we're not old yet,
Hetty, eh?" turning up my face. "I have my old school in town again. We
have everything we want now, to begin afresh."

I did not answer; nor, through the day, when Jacky and the boys, one
after another, would say anxiously, as one does to a sick person, "Is
there anything you need, mother?" did I utter a wish. I dared not: I
knew all that I had done: and if God never gave me _that_ gift again, I
never should ask for it. But I saw them watching me more uneasily, and
towards evening caught part of Jacky's talk with Doctor Manning.

"I tell you I will. I'll risk the fever," impatiently. "It's that she
wants. I can see it in her eyes. Heaven save you, Uncle Dan, you're not
a woman!"

And in a moment she brought my baby and laid it in my breast. It was
only when its little hand touched me that I surely knew God had forgiven
me.

It ceased raining in the evening: the clouds cleared off, red and heavy.
Rob had come up from town, and took his father's place beside me, but he
and Jacky brought their chairs close, so we had a quiet evening all
together. Their way of talking, of politics or religion or even news,
was so healthy and alive, warm-blooded! And I entered into it with so
keen a relish! It was such an earnest, heartsome world I had come into,
out of myself! Once, when Jacqueline was giving me a drink, she said,--

"I wish you'd tell us what you dreamed in all these days, dear."

Robert glanced at me keenly.

"No, Jacky," he said, his face flushing.

I looked him full in the eyes: from that moment I had a curious reliance
and trust in his shrewd, just, kindly nature, and in his religion, a
something below that. If I were dying, I should be glad if Robert
Manning would pray for me. I should think his prayers would be