The Catholic bulletin. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1911-1995, 1919-01-18

No, he could not. The old man de-
clinod to have nurse brought into
the small apartment. He looked at
Mary when he said to me: Doctor,
don't want to go to the hospital |
want to die here, where Mary is
For once the old woman was silent.
But she came out in the hallway with
me, as I left, and lamented her fate
that the bad temper of him wouldn't
let him go to the hospital and take the
care off, from her.
/ went away, sick in heart at her
appalling sefshness.
1t was ten days later, and | was in
the rooms with James. He had been
unconscious all night. His breath was
coming quickly and with tremendous
effort. His eyes were closed and a
discharge was oozing from the
| lids. His frame was heaving
He had not spoken for twelve
hours, nor had he. taken food
Or drink. His end was near. I held
his wrist, and the unsteadiness and
pickering of the pulse with the other
signs told of coming dissolution.
Mary, the wife, stood by his chair.
"Oh, | wish he were dead" she
| whined: hes a terrible care"
Not word of the mans sufferings,
No wish springing from the desire to
bring relief to the dying man! Sole
ly the thought of relief for herself.
| felt the pulse skip few beats
then came longer interval without
beat The face of James began to get
gray.
| Just then James Acheson opened
his eyes. Oh, how weary they looked!
Dim, partly filed with discharge,
slightly staring, the old Irish blue
eyes looked strange, indeed. They
were fixed on me, but vacantly. His
| lips moved, but no sound came from
them. Slowly his eyes turned towards
| his wife. AS they came upon her face
| the dimness disappeared A glow of
affection, fame of joyous recognition
leaped within their depths, transform
ing the eyes, filling them with tender
| ness, vivifying the blue again. He
was looking directly at her. His lips
moved. This time we heard the words.
Il love you, Mary" he said-and
| died.
Two months after his death l was
summoned to see Mary. She was
querulous, whining, complaining. Mrs.
Fitz had moved away. There was mo
one to do anything" for her
IF | want pint of milk from the
corner, | must pay child two cents
to get it for me-" she complained
of bread, I must pay to have some one
bring it in
"Why don't you go out YOURSELF" I
asked her.
"Oh, I'm afraid" she said "I'm
afraid I'll fall. I'm not used to going
out for things, James always went for
them till he was sick, and then all
the neighbors brought them for me.
| till he died And now no one'Il do any
thing for me-
She looked at me for sympathy. I
felt her appeal. but it did not move
me as similar lament in another
lonely old woman would readily have
done
She rocked her head to and fro
| ''Oh, Doctor she moaned; Il wish
James was here
No word of mine or of any human
being could deepen that lonely old
| woman's grief. She had often wished
the death of James. She had never
spoken well of him. And now, alone,
the one buttress that stood between
her and the worlds true estimate of
her gone. she was pierced with the
desolation of the absence of the man
who felt what had never been in her
own heart, the love that gives sacri-
fee, devotion-all, for love.
John G. Copie IN Catholic Neirs. Il