The change of affairs had also wrought a change in Fanny, who seemed and really was better than she had been for many days.  Gladly would she have stayed with Dr. Lacey, but she felt that duty called her to Julia’s bedside.  With unwearying devotion she hung over the pillow of her sister, who seemed more quiet when she knew Fanny was near.  Once she looked wistfully in her face, and appeared as if anxious to speak, but Fanny gently laid her hand on her lips, saying, “No, no, Julia; you must not.”

She did, however, and the word “forgive” met Fanny’s ear.  Had Fanny been less of a Christian, forgiveness might have been hard, but now she answered sincerely, truthfully, “As I hope for pardon in heaven, so do I forgive you for the great wrong you have done me.”

At the mention of the word “heaven,” Julia shuddered, and after a time repeated, “Heaven!  You will find it, but I—­never—­never!”

Earnestly then did Fanny speak of a Savior’s love, which receives all, pardons all, who come to him.  Julia shook her head despairingly, and as the conversation seemed to annoy her, Fanny ceased talking, while a voice behind her said, “Teach me, too, the way of life, for I fear I have never walked in it.”

It was Dr. Lacey, who, unobserved by either of the girls, had entered and been a listener to what Fanny said.  As Julia heard the sound of voices she turned toward him a look so imploring, so full of contrition and entreaty, that he was moved, and approaching the bedside, took the vacant seat near Fanny.  But he did not, like her, breathe words of forgiveness, for his heart was full of bitterness toward her.  As he sat there, gazing coldly, sternly at her, she again spoke, “If you can, if you will only forgive me.”

Dr. Lacey’s brow grew dark and his manner excited, as he replied, “Forgive you!  In time I may learn to do so, but to forget will take me my lifetime, and yet I blame myself not less than I do you for having been so duped.”

A low sob was Julia’s only answer as Dr. Lacey arose to leave, announcing to Fanny his intention of visiting Joseph Dunn, who was said to be dying.  As he entered the house where Joseph lay, tossing in feverish agony, the sick man’s eyes glared wildly upon him as he shrieked, “Why have you come to taunt me with my crime?  Is it not enough that the room is full of little devils who creep over my pillow, and shout in my ear as they hold to view the letters I withheld?  I did not do it alone.  She bribed me with gold, and now when I am dead, who will take care of my mother?  She will be cold when the winter winds blow, and hungry when the summer corn ripens.”

Dr. Lacey drew nearer to him and stooping down, whispered, “Is your mother very poor and you all her dependence?”

“Yes, yes,” answered Joseph, whose almost only virtue was the love he bore his mother.

“Fear not, then,” said Dr. Lacey, “I will care for her; for though you did me a great wrong, you saved me from being today the most wretched of men.”