Blinding hot the tears were raining through Varge's hands—the great shoulders shook.
Her hand found his head and rested upon it.
"I am going home, Varge," she said. "It would have been very terrible to go in bitterness … for He taught us to ask for forgiveness for ourselves as we forgave others … I could not do it with my own strength, but He has answered my prayer and now I can forgive, Varge … I forgive … and I have asked Him for pardon for you, too."
The nurse was sobbing audibly now; wet-eyed, both doctors bowed their heads; Harold Merton was facing the bed, his shoulders bent a little forward, his eyes staring at the scene as though they were held upon it by some horrible fascination that he could not overcome. Varge's face was still buried in his hands—there were no words to say—grief seemed to rend wide his soul; the awfulness of the unconscious irony to appal him.
Again a stillness fell upon the room—a long stillness—and then again she spoke, very faintly, struggling for her words.
"Once—that day—those terrible words I said to you—I have asked for forgiveness for them too—and He seemed to bid me ask it first from you … you will forgive me, Varge, and—and try never to remember them—Varge—"
His hand reached up to where hers lay upon his head and drew it down and held it against his face.
"Tell me so, Varge," she whispered.
"I have forgotten them long, long ago," he said brokenly.
Her fingers tightened over his, held there for a little
