She had never forgotten the bitterness of those words. They dazed her, too, for in her own opinion she had been the only wronged one, he the transgressor. He was going out of life now, and she read in his silence that he would keep his word, that for the grievance he cherished he would not grant forgiveness. Neither would he plead with her for pardon for the wrong that he had done. It was a cruel position for both, and she felt that he only endured her presence for cold pity’s sake, while secretly wishing her away. “God help me. I can not bear to leave him!” she thought, despairingly. The next morning the travelers from Florida arrived. Cinthia and her aunt had a most affecting meeting, though it was the elder woman who broke down and forced the other to tears. “Oh, Cinthy, you never loved him as I did! You never knew him at his best--before sorrow came to him and spoiled his nature,” she sobbed. Cinthia could only weep. “It is not my fault that I was lacking in sympathy. I was never told of his troubles.” “He did not wish for you to know, dear, lest your young life should be saddened more than it was already.” “Dear aunt, I am very sorry for him, and grieved to see you looking so pale and thin. Tell me how all this came about,” pleaded Cinthia. And while they are exchanging confidences, we will return to Arthur and his mother. She had gone to her room to receive him alone, and he clasped her tenderly in his arms. “Poor mother!” he sighed, with deep compassion, and then they sat down and talked awhile together. “I have one pleasant piece of news for you. Cinthia and Fred are engaged,” he said. “I am glad of it--under the circumstances,” she replied, exactly as he had replied to Frederick’s announcement of the betrothal. She mused silently a moment, then added: “It will be good news for her father. He can die easier.” “You are sure that he must die, dear mother?” “You will not doubt it when you see him, Arthur; and the physician does not hold out any hope, though he thinks that the end may be lingering.” She spoke with the steady calmness of despair, and her son looked at her with uneasy eyes, wondering how she felt, how she was bearing it. Perhaps she read his thoughts, for she said quickly: “Go to him as soon as you can, dear. Perhaps it may give him some pleasure to see you by him now. Be kind and tender--for the sake of old days.” “And you, mother?” “I have done what I could--for duty’s sake.” “Only for that?” he wondered, but dared not ask, and soon left her to seek Mr. Dawn. Between the two there was a touching greeting--a strange one for two men who could only be supposed to harbor resentment against each other. Arthur was not ashamed to shed tears when he saw that helpless form and pallid face with the bandaged head. His voice trembled while he talked, and Mr. Dawn’s replies were low and gentle.