“No, Lottie, never bad,” and Mr. Steele pressed the hand he held in his, while Kitty wondered to see this grave, quiet man so tender and loving when she had heretofore thought him cold and indifferent. “Yes, I was bad,” Lottie said. “I’ve never been the wife I ought to have been, and I’m so sorry now, and when I’m gone I want you to think as kindly of me as you can and bring baby up to be just such a woman as Kitty Craig. Not fashionable, Am, though she might be even that and a good woman, too. There are many such, I know, but do not let her put fashion before God. Don’t let her be what I have been. Mrs. Craig will see to her and tell her of her mother, who was a better woman before she died; for I do believe I am, and that the Saviour is with me, and has forgiven even me. I’d like to live for baby’s sake, and show Am that I could be good, but I am willing to die, and ready, I trust; and maybe if I get well I should be bad again; so it is right, and Heaven knows best. Lay me down now, husband, and let Kitty Craig kiss me good-by, and tell me she forgives the cruel words I said when I first saw her, and my neglect after that.” She seemed like a little child in her weakness and contrition, and Kitty’s tears fell like rain as she gave the farewell kiss, and said that she had long ago forgotten the insult offered her. “Now go: I breathe better when there is no one here but Am,” Lottie said. “And when you come again, maybe I shall be gone, but I hope I shall be at peace where there is no more pain or temptation to be bad.” So John and Kitty went out together, and left her alone with her husband, who drew the covering about her, and, smoothing her tumbled pillow, bade her sleep if she could. And Lottie slept at last, while her husband watched beside her with his eyes fixed upon her white face, and a heavy crushing pain in his heart as he thought of losing her now, just as he had a glimpse of what she might be to him, and as he hoped, just as she was beginning to love him. He had always loved her in his quiet, awkward way—always been proud of her; and though her frivolities and inconsistencies had roused his temper at times, and made him say harsh things to her and of the religion she professed, he had through all been fond of her and believed in God—that in, believed in the God he had learned about in the New England Sunday-school at the foot of the mountain, and he thought of Him now, and for the first time in years his lips moved with the precious words: “Our Father.” That prayer had once been so familiar to him, and as he said it now the past came back again, and he was a boy once more, with all the glow and fervor of youth, and Lottie was to him all she had been when he first called her his wife, only he seemed to love her more; and with a choking sob he cried: “I can’t let Lottie die. Oh, Father, save her for me, and I’ll be a better man.”