The change in my benefactor, since I had seen him last, startled and distressed me. He lay back in a large arm-chair, wearing a grim black dressing-gown, and looking pitiably thin and pinched and worn. I do not think I should have known him again, if we had met by accident. He signed to me to be seated on a little chair by his side.
"I wanted to see you," he said quietly, "before I die. You must have thought me neglectful and unkind, with good reason. My child, you have not been forgotten. If years have passed without a meeting between us, it has not been altogether my fault--"He stopped. A pained expression passed over his poor worn face;he was evidently thinking of the young wife whom he had lost. Irepeated--fervently and sincerely repeated--what I had already said to him in writing. "I owe everything, sir, to your fatherly kindness." Saying this, I ventured a little further. I took his wan white hand, hanging over the arm of the chair, and respectfully put it to my lips.
He gently drew his hand away from me, and sighed as he did it.
Perhaps _she_ had sometimes kissed his hand.
"Now tell me about yourself," he said.
