Just then the sick man stirred in his sleep, and he said disjointedly:
"I'll make it all right to you, Hume." Then came a pause, and a quicker
utterance: "Forgive--forgive me, Rose." The factor got up, and turned to
go, and Hume, with a sorrowful gesture, went over to the bed.
Again the voice said: "Ten years--I have repented ten years--I dare not
speak--"
The factor touched Hume's arm. "He has fever. You and I must nurse him,
Hume. You can trust me--you understand."
"Yes, I can trust you," was the reply. "But I can tell you nothing."
"I do not want to know anything. If you can watch till two o'clock I will
relieve you. I'll send the medicine chest over. You know how to treat
him."
The factor passed out, and the other was left alone with the man who had
wronged him. The feeling most active in his mind was pity, and, as he
prepared a draught from his own stock of medicines, he thought the past
and the present all over. He knew that however much he had suffered, this
man had suffered more. In this silent night there was broken down any
barrier that may have stood between Lepage and his complete compassion.
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