So the thing was done. That afternoon the lawyer came to receive instructions, and the next morning the will was presented and duly signed. When the lawyer was gone, Jack turned feebly to "Cobbler" Horn. "There's just one thing more," he said. "I must see her, and tell her about it myself." "Would she come" asked "Cobbler" Horn. "And do you think it would be well?" "'Come'? She would come, if I were dying at North Pole. And there will be no peace for me, till I have heard from her own lips that she has forgiven me." "Ah!" ejaculated "Cobbler" Horn. "Do you say so?" "Yes, cousin; I feel that it's no use to ask pardon of God, till Bertha has forgiven me. You know what I mean." "Yes," said "Cobbler" Horn gently; "I know what you mean, and I'll do what I can." "Thank you!" said Jack, fervently. "But it mustn't be by letter. You must go and see her yourself, if you will; and I don't think you will refuse." "Cobbler" Horn shrank, at first, from so delicate and difficult a mission, for which he pronounced himself utterly unfit. But the pathetic appeal of the dark, hollow eyes, which gleamed upon him from the pillow, ultimately prevailed. "Tell her," said Jack, as "Cobbler" Horn wished him good night, "that I dare not ask pardon of God, till I have her forgiveness from her own lips." In a village almost English in its rural loveliness "Cobbler" Horn found himself, the next morning, face to face, in the little front-room of a humble cottage, with a pale, sorrowful maiden, on whose pensively-beautiful face hope and fear mingled their lights and shadows while he delivered his tender message. "Would she go with him?" "Go?" she exclaimed, with trembling eagerness, "of course I will! But how good it is of you, sir--a stranger, to come like this!" So Bertha Norman came back with "Cobbler" Horn to the private hospital in New York. He put her into her cousin's room, closed the door, and then quietly came downstairs. Bertha did not notice that her conductor had withdrawn. She flew to the bedside. The dying man put out a trembling hand. "Forgive----" he began in broken tones. But she stifled his words with gentle kisses, and, sitting down by the bed, clasped his poor thin hand. "Ask God to forgive you, dear Jack. I've never stopped loving you a bit!" "Yes, I will ask God that," he said. "I can now. But I want to tell you something first, Bertha. I am a rich man." Then he told her the wonderful story. "Ah!" she exclaimed, "that was your friend who brought me here. I felt that he was good." "He is," said Jack. "And now Bertha, it's all yours. I've made my will, and the money is to come to you when I'm gone. You know I'm going, Bertha?" She tightened the grasp of her hand on his with a convulsive movement, but did not speak. "It 'ull be your very own, Bertha," he said. "Yes, thank you, dear Jack. But forgive me, if I don't think much about that just now." Then there was a brief silence, which was presently broken by Jack.