He went, a bent, elderly man in a gray coat, threading his wavering way through the noisy buffet of the streets of the city where Athalia had elected to dwell. He found her in a gaudy hotel, full of the glare of pushing, hurrying life. He sat down at her bedside, a little breathless, and looked at her with mild, remote eyes. “Do you forgive me, Lewis?” she said. “I have nothing to forgive, sister,” he told her. “Don’t call me that!” she cried, with feeble passion. He looked a little bewildered. “Yee,” he said, “I forgive you.” “Oh, Lewis!--Lewis!--Lewis!” she mourned; “this is what I have done!” She wept pitifully. His face grew vaguely troubled, as if he did not quite understand.... Then, abruptly, the veil lifted: his eyes dilated with pain; he passed his hand over his forehead once or twice and sighed. Then he looked down at the poor, dying face that once he had loved. “Why, ‘Thalia!” he said, in a surprised and anguished voice; suddenly he put his arm under the restless head. “There, there, little Tay; don’t cry,” he said, and smiled at her. And with that she was content to fall asleep. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Way to Peace, by Margaret Deland