The widow stared swiftly from Jim's brother, at one
window, to Dave Day at the other, and hid her face on her arms.
"Remember, Becky--how can you expect forgiveness in another world,
unless you forgive in this?"
The woman's brow knitted and she lay quiet. Like the widow who held her
hand, the dying woman believed, with never the shadow of a doubt, that
somewhere above the stars, a living God reigned in a heaven of
never-ending happiness; that somewhere beneath the earth a personal
devil gloated over souls in eternal torture; that whether she went
above, or below, hung solely on her last hour of contrition; and that
in heaven or hell she would know those whom she might meet as surely as
she had known them on earth. By and by her face softened and she drew a
long breath.
"Jim was a good man," she said. And then after a moment:
"An' I was a good woman"--she turned her eyes towards the girl--"until
Jim married _her_. I didn't keer after that." Then she got calm, and
while she spoke to the widow, she looked at the girl.
"Will you git up in church an' say before everybody that you knew I was
_good_ when you said I was bad--that you lied about me?"
"Yes--yes." Still Becky looked at the girl, who stooped again.
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