‘Yes,’ pursued Mr. Piper. ‘You have tried very hard to improve my position in society. You have held me up to scorn and ridicule. You have made me the laughing stock of my old friends, as the fond deluded husband--the middle-aged dupe of a pair of blue eyes and a rosebud mouth. While my first wife lived I was a respectable man. You have made me--what? A door-mat for Captain Standish.’ ‘I have done nothing really wicked,’ pleaded Bella. ‘I have been foolish, perhaps. I have let him pay me compliments--and--and--that kind of thing. But I have not broken one of the commandments. I could kneel in church and hear them read without feeling myself a castaway.’ ‘Don’t cry,’ said Mr. Piper. ‘There’s no use in talking about it. I have read Captain Standish’s letters to you.’ ‘You have broken open my desk,’ cried Bella, in sudden alarm. ‘Yes, I have seen his presents, and read his letters, and I can guess what he thought of you when he wrote them, and what he meant to be the end of your acquaintance.’ ‘He asked me to run away with him, and I refused,’ protested Bella. ‘That was the first time,’ said Mr. Piper, coolly. ‘You refused me the first time, you know. The captain meant to ask again, you may be sure.’ ‘I have been selfish and ungrateful,’ sobbed Bella. ‘God made you so, I think,’ answered Mr. Piper, excusingly. ‘I believe it’s in the grain. Don’t cry, poor thing. If you had lived there must have been a bitter reckoning between you and me--but death squares everything. If God can forgive you, I must not stand out. He’s the largest creditor.’ He took the little cold hand lying loose upon the coverlet, and pressed it gently. It was not in his nature to be unmerciful. And then she was passing away from him--she was drifting out of his jurisdiction. There was that awe upon him which the hardest must feel in the presence of death. At that friendly pressure Bella gave a sob of relief. ‘Oh, if you can only forgive me, I think I can die in peace,’ she said. ‘It seems hard to die--so young--and just as life was so bright. But I have been very wicked--to others as well as you. There is some one to whom I must make atonement. Send for Mr. Culverhouse.’ ‘Wouldn’t you rather see Mr. Dulcimer?’ asked Mr. Piper, thinking that the Vicar ought to be a more powerful friend at this crisis. ‘No, no, Mr. Culverhouse. I cannot die in peace till I have seen him.’ ‘He shall be sent for this minute, Bella. Don’t agitate yourself.’ Mr. Piper went out of the room and gave his orders, and then came back and seated himself quietly by the bed, and kept silence. It was not quite two years since he had sat by poor Moggie’s death-bed, and heard her talk of heaven, and how they two were to meet there and know each other again, and have all their children join them one by one in due time, like an affectionate Irish family whose elders had emigrated to America. To Moggie’s simple soul death had seemed verily emigration.