'I want to count for anything you'll let me count for,' he said; 'but--it isn't your fault, dear--I don't think I will ever count for much, now; I don't see how I can.

If that's being left, I guess I am left.' She gazed at him, and all that she had to offer was her longing that the truth were not the truth, and for the moment of silent confrontation her pain was so great that its pressure brought an involuntary cry--protest or presage--it felt like both.

'You will--you will count--for much more, dear Franklin.' She didn't know that it was the truth; his seemed to be the final truth; but it came, and it had to be said, and he could accept it as her confession and her atonement..