“You’re a good girl, Jennie,” he said brokenly. “You’ve been good to me. I’ve been hard and cross, but I’m an old man. You forgive me, don’t you?” “Oh, papa, please don’t,” she pleaded, tears welling from her eyes. “You know I have nothing to forgive. I’m the one who has been all wrong.” “No, no,” he said; and she sank down on her knees beside him and cried. He put his thin, yellow hand on her hair. “There, there,” he said brokenly, “I understand a lot of things I didn’t. We get wiser as we get older.” She left the room, ostensibly to wash her face and hands, and cried her eyes out. Was he really forgiving her at last? And she had lied to him so! She tried to be more attentive, but that was impossible. But after this reconciliation he seemed happier and more contented, and they spent a number of happy hours together, just talking. Once he said to her, “You know I feel just like I did when I was a boy. If it wasn’t for my bones I could get up and dance on the grass.” Jennie fairly smiled and sobbed in one breath. “You’ll get stronger, papa,” she said. “You’re going to get well. Then I’ll take you out driving.” She was so glad she had been able to make him comfortable these last few years. As for Lester, he was affectionate and considerate. “Well, how is it to-night?” he would ask the moment he entered the house, and he would always drop in for a few minutes before dinner to see how the old man was getting along. “He looks pretty well,” he would tell Jennie. “He’s apt to live some time yet. I wouldn’t worry.” Vesta also spent much time with her grandfather, for she had come to love him dearly. She would bring her books, if it didn’t disturb him too much, and recite some of her lessons, or she would leave his door open, and play for him on the piano. Lester had bought her a handsome music-box also, which she would sometimes carry to his room and play for him. At times he wearied of everything and everybody save Jennie; he wanted to be alone with her. She would sit beside him quite still and sew. She could see plainly that the end was only a little way off. Gerhardt, true to his nature, took into consideration all the various arrangements contingent upon his death. He wished to be buried in the little Lutheran cemetery, which was several miles farther out on the South Side, and he wanted the beloved minister of his church to officiate. “I want everything plain,” he said. “Just my black suit and those Sunday shoes of mine, and that black string tie. I don’t want anything else. I will be all right.” Jennie begged him not to talk of it, but he would. One day at four o’clock he had a sudden sinking spell, and at five he was dead. Jennie held his hands, watching his labored breathing; once or twice he opened his eyes to smile at her. “I don’t mind going,” he said, in this final hour. “I’ve done what I could.” “Don’t talk of dying, papa,” she pleaded. “It’s the end,” he said. “You’ve been good to me. You’re a good woman.”