St. Paul daily globe. [volume] (Saint Paul, Minn.) 1884-1896, 1889-11-09

many hours. MIR. Carlyon may, III he
wish, visit the hospital Immediately
upon the receipt of this note."'
Ten minutes later he was standing by
he bedside of his old love.
She lay quite motionless, but con-
scious, her lustrlous eyes open, no color
in her pallid cheeks and lips, her head
bound with iceeloths, her dark hair
streaming over her shoulders.
When she spoke to HIM her voice was
very low and weak.
"Cecil," she said, do you remember
that this was my dearest wish? i have
prayed often that when l died you
might be with ME. 1t seemed unlikely
our lives were so far apart. But it
has come, and | am thankful"
They were alone; the nurse who had
attended upon her had withdrawn.
Around the bed, the screen, the fatal
screen betokening wealth of suffering,
perchance death, within its boundary,
had been arranged so that no other pa
tient might look upon the last sad hour
of this diving woman.
Cecil Carlyon knelt beside the bed
that he might catch her faltering ac-
cents.
His face, too, was ashen white, yet he
felt this scene in no wise shock to
him. She had been so near to him in
his thoughts that night that their meet
ing seemed only natural sequel of
what had gone before.
"My love-" he said, my only love-"
and these were all the words he had. .
1t was left to the dying woman to tell
him whatsoever there was to tell.
Horace is dead" she murmured.
Horace had been her husband.) "He
died last month where he was, in pris-
on. l came over to England and took a
house in Park Lane. On the afternoon
that this happened l was on my way to
be better than to write. And l wanted
to ask you whether you had been happy,
and to say to you that all i h years that
you and were parted | had lived only
for this-tO see you again."
He was weeping now. Her plaintive
words, the contrast between her long
life of patient endurance, buOyed up by
that looking forward TO meeting; the
contrast between this and the meeting
as it was, touched him too keenly.
Grear SObs shook his frame. But she
was calm still.
81 cannot raise my arms" she said,
"but you must put yours around me,
Cecil. 1t is the last time. and L am dy-
ing, and there is no wrong now"
So aSgently as he could he put his
arms around her; and pillowed on his
breast she lay inert, as quiet, as tran
quill, as an infant in its mothers en-
brace.
"Oh, my love, my love! my hearts
delight, my best, my most precious
treasured" Thus he crOOned to her, as
if she-were his bride, and he her happy
husband.
Until she, with the slightest move
ment, raised her face, and he bent down
to her, so that their lips met in the
saddest of all sad kisseS-and ah, how
many piteous ones there are!-the last
kiss of all.
Her strength was ebbing fast. All
that she had had, she had given in
speaking to him, and now there re-
manned none at all.
When the nurse came back she
looked at her patient and whispered to
Carlyon that it would be quiet. He did
not ask, but he knew well that sit"
meant the destroying angel who, even
ar that instant, was lowering, as so
often he had to hover, over the great
hospital wherein they were, ready to
ia Ike her away.
So there he stayed with her in his
arms.
Until at length they came and un-
clasped her hands from his they were
very, very cold. and told him, gently
but firmly, that all was over, that Mrs.
Sar9 ent was dead.
For an instant they withdrew.
Then Cecil CarlyOn knelt beside her
and kissed her, and whispered to her
that she was his wife.
And left her for his solitary home.
When the debate upon the marriage
laws was resumed that night in the
house, Rt. Hon. Cecil Carlyon spake as
he had never spoken before.
Had he not cause to speak, as one
with authority?
For he and the dead woman had loved
one another dearly and faithfully.
And her release had come, alas! too
late.