the mist he read it all. On his knees by the side of the bed, he buried his face in his hands and bowed his head on the counterpane. Doctor Kreelmar had told him she was very ill; Doctor Kreelmar had not told him—that she was dying—that the end was very near. And he had not seen it at first—only the same dear face that he had always known had come back to the galleries of his memory like a retouched picture—he had not seen the change at first—the change that comes but once—forever.
She seemed to be speaking again, very slowly, almost inaudibly—as though to herself—and he could not catch the words. Then her voice rose stronger in fervent earnestness—she was repeating the Lord's Prayer.
"… Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us—"
She did not finish—her voice failed, and there was no sound in the room save a low, suppressed sob from the nurse across the bed.
Presently she spoke again—with an effort, with long pauses when weakness overcame her.
"I have loved you all your life, Varge, almost as though you had been my own boy—but I could not forgive … Harold set me the example and forgave you long ago, but I could not … I have prayed that I might, but I could not, for in my bitterness I forgot that I was the only mother you had ever known … and that—that perhaps I had failed in some way in my duty to you … that I had not tried as I should have tried when you were a little child to make you strong for the years to come."
