Rymer was heard to sigh.
Miss Shepperson noted these things, and wondered a little, but Mrs. Rymer's
smiling assurance that now at last all was well revived her cheerful
expectations.
With a certain solemnity she was summoned, a day or two later, to a morning
colloquy in the drawing-room. Mr. Rymer sat in an easy-chair, holding a
bundle of papers; Mrs. Rymer sat on the sofa, the dozing baby on her lap;
over against them their friend took her seat. With a little cough and a
rustle of his papers, the polite man began to speak--
'Miss Shepperson, the day has come when I am able to discharge my debt to
you. You will not misunderstand that expression--I speak of my debt in
money. What I owe to you--what we all owe to you--in another and a higher
sense, can never be repaid. That moral debt must still go on, and be
acknowledged by the unfailing gratitude of a lifetime.'
'Of a lifetime,' repeated Mrs. Rymer, sweetly murmuring, and casting
towards her friend an eloquent glance.
'Here, however,' resumed her husband, 'is the pecuniary account. Will you
do me the kindness, Miss Shepperson, to glance it over and see if you find
it correct?'
Miss Shepperson took the paper, which was covered with a very neat array of
figures.
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