"I don't mind even that. I would have faced the worst had it to be faced. I never was a coward--except in one thing." He paused and looked timidly at George. "I shrank from telling you how I was the unhappy cause of your father's death." "You were not the cause, in my opinion. Mrs. Jersey was the cause." "Well, I thought you would shrink from me did you know all." "I do know all, and I do not shrink from you," replied George, leaning across the desk to shake Ireland's hand. "It was a pure accident, and has been related by your enemy." "I am so glad the truth is known to you at last," faltered the old man, "and that you see how unconsciously I caused the death. You are her son, George, the son of the only woman I ever loved--of the woman for whose sake I have remained lonely all these years. Had you condemned me----" His emotion prevented him from saying more. George grew alarmed by his pallor. "Please think no more of the matter, Mr. Ireland," he said; "you are ill. Go and lie down!" "Yes, I'll lie down." Ireland leaned heavily, on George's arm. "I shall lie down for ever. But I am glad you know. I am glad you are not angered." "We are the best of friends, Mr. Ireland. You have always been kind to me. And I am sure my dead mother blesses you for all your goodness to her orphan boy." "Rosina! Rosina!" murmured Ireland, "how I loved her. You have her eyes, George, and her kind nature. Come, let me get to bed. Soon the curtain will drop." "I am afraid my visit has been too much for you." "No. I am glad you came. I am glad you spoke out. I always intended to do so, but I feared lest you should blame me." By this time they were ascending the stairs. George conducted the old man to his room and sent for the doctor. Ireland undressed and got to bed. Then he insisted on George leaving him. "But you are ill," protested the young man. "I am dying, but what of that? I am glad to die. I shall meet Rosina again after long, long years of sorrow. Go, George. We understand one another, and you have forgiven me. There is no more to be said." "There is nothing to forgive," replied George, softly; then, to humor his old guardian, he departed. A strong grip of the hand was exchanged between them. George left the room and saw Ireland lying as still as any corpse. Only his lips moved, and they murmured continuously, "Rosina! Rosina!" He was true to the woman he loved to the very end.