“Papa, he has never even asked to see me, and I am glad he has not. I have forgiven him. Indeed, indeed I have! And I pray for him. Indeed, indeed I do! Not only night and morning, at the regular prayers, but through the day, whenever I think of him, I pray for him earnestly, fervently. I do! But, papa, I cannot even endure the thought of seeing him.” “Then, my child, you have not truly forgiven him. You must pray for yourself, dear—for the gift of the grace of charity,” gravely replied the rector. No, Gentleman Geff had never asked to see his wife or child: never even referred to either. Mr. Campbell was not sure that the man knew they were in the house. But one morning, when the rector was sitting beside him, Montgomery suddenly said: “I think it is a confounded shame that a sick man cannot be permitted to see his wife and child.” “But you can be permitted to see them. Do you wish to do so?” gently inquired the minister. “I should think I did. I have never even set eyes on the boy, and he must be about nine months old by this time.” “Your child is not a boy, but a girl,” said the rector. “Now there! I did not even know the sex of my own child, who is nearly a year old, and has been under the same roof with me for several weeks. And this a Christian household!” “If you feel equal to the interview, I will go and call my daughter now and ask her to come and bring the little girl.” “No. Let her come alone the first time. One at a time is all I can stand.” James Campbell went down to the back parlor, where he found his wife and daughter seated at their needlework. “Jennie, my darling,” he said, gently laying his hand upon her head, “Montgomery has just asked to see you. Will you come to him?” “Oh, papa! I cannot! I cannot!” she replied, with a shiver. “Not come to a dying—yes, I must say it,” he added, after a painful hesitation—“husband, when he sends for you?” “He has forfeited that name, papa,” very firmly replied the wronged wife. “But you must forgive him, my child.” “I do forgive him.” “Well, then, you must come with me to him.” “Oh, papa, I cannot! Indeed I cannot!” “Then you do not forgive him, although he is dying?” “Is he dying, papa?” she inquired in a pitiful voice. “Not this moment, my dear. But Dr. Hobbs declares that he cannot live many days in any case, and may not live an hour if another hemorrhage should come on. Will you come with me, my dear?” “Oh, papa, I cannot!” “Jennie, how can you be so hard-hearted?” demanded her mother, now entering into the conversation for the first time. “I am ashamed of you, and afraid for you lest you be punished. After the man is dead and gone, and you can never be kind to him again, you will be sorry. Go, at least, and speak to him if you only stay one minute.” “Come, Jennie,” said her father. And then the young woman arose and followed the clergyman to the sick-room.