He stopped and stared at the ceiling. A slight twinge of pain reminded him of the vigorous seizures he had been through. He couldn’t stand many more paroxysms like the last one. “I couldn’t go, Jennie, without seeing you again,” he observed, when the slight twinge ceased and he was free to think again. “I’ve always wanted to say to you, Jennie,” he went on, “that I haven’t been satisfied with the way we parted. It wasn’t the right thing, after all. I haven’t been any happier. I’m sorry. I wish now, for my own peace of mind, that I hadn’t done it.” “Don’t say that, Lester,” she demurred, going over in her mind all that had been between them. This was such a testimony to their real union—their real spiritual compatibility. “It’s all right. It doesn’t make any difference. You’ve been very good to me. I wouldn’t have been satisfied to have you lose your fortune. It couldn’t be that way. I’ve been a lot better satisfied as it is. It’s been hard, but, dear, everything is hard at times.” She paused. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t right. The thing wasn’t worked out right from the start; but that wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you that. I’m glad I’m here to do it.” “Don’t talk that way, Lester—please don’t,” she pleaded. “It’s all right. You needn’t be sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry for. You have always been so good to me. Why, when I think—” she stopped, for it was hard for her to speak. She was choking with affection and sympathy. She pressed his hands. She was recalling the house he took for her family in Cleveland, his generous treatment of Gerhardt, all the long ago tokens of love and kindness. “Well, I’ve told you now, and I feel better. You’re a good woman, Jennie, and you’re kind to come to me this way.” I loved you. I love you now. I want to tell you that. It seems strange, but you’re the only woman I ever did love truly. We should never have parted. Jennie caught her breath. It was the one thing she had waited for all these years—this testimony. It was the one thing that could make everything right—this confession of spiritual if not material union. Now she could live happily. Now die so. “Oh, Lester,” she exclaimed with a sob, and pressed his hand. He returned the pressure. There was a little silence. Then he spoke again. “How are the two orphans?” he asked. “Oh, they’re lovely,” she answered, entering upon a detailed description of their diminutive personalities. He listened comfortably, for her voice was soothing to him. Her whole personality was grateful to him. When it came time for her to go he seemed desirous of keeping her. “Going, Jennie?” “I can stay just as well as not, Lester,” she volunteered. “I’ll take a room. I can send a note out to Mrs. Swenson. It will be all right.” “You needn’t do that,” he said, but she could see that he wanted her, that he did not want to be alone. From that time on until the hour of his death she was not out of the hotel. CHAPTER LXII