“I have it!” she breathed suddenly, and her voice was stronger; for even in the clutches of death a new insight into the meaning of things had power to stimulate her whole being. “It is this way. Our error was the same. We both betrayed their trust in us. We grieved love. And the reason that we remember now is that love and God are one, and this is the judgment. That is why we see their eyes rebuking us. It comes to us, now that we die. That is all life is for--to learn not to grieve love. Why did I never know it before? Oh, if I had put that in my books!” “If you had put it in your life it would have been better,” interrupted the man; but she went on, unheeding: “That must be what they meant when they said my work lacked conviction. It is the heart that takes sides. One man said I was too clever to be interesting. I never understood what he meant before, but I see now. It was that I had mind enough but too little heart. I wanted to become as one of the gods by knowing, and the appointed path is by loving. To be human and to love is to be divine.” “Oh, wise conclusion!” mocked the man. “What does it profit you to know it--now?” She was silent, spent with the effort of her eager speech. The maps on the opposite wall whirled before her eyes. She felt herself slipping--slipping. Yet, though she found no words to tell him why, there came to her a sudden, sweet assurance that it profited her much, even at this last hour, to know the thing she had just spoken. It was a long time before she found strength to ask: “Shall you be here after I am gone?” “Why?” “I gave them my husband’s name. I knew he would be glad to come. He lives a hundred miles from here, and it will only take him four hours at the longest. I shall not last that long. If you would tell him”-- “Tell him what?” “Tell him,” said the woman, slowly, “that I saw; that I am sorry I grieved love and him; that I wish I had been wiser about what life meant; that love is always best.” “The fact is,” said the man, reluctantly, “I did not mean to stay. I dabbled in medicine a little once, and I know that I can last this way a day or two. But I am in pain now, and it will grow worse. What is the use of staying? They tied an artery for me; it might easily get untied, you know.” “Aren’t you going to wait until your wife comes?” she asked, wonderingly. “Better not,” answered the man, briefly. “It would hurt her less this way, and me too. Scenes worry me, and her nerves are delicate.” “What farces such marriages as yours are!” “Better a farce than a tragedy. My wife has been happier than your husband. She has been very comfortable, and she will continue to be so, for my estate is reasonably large.” “Then Arthur will never know that I am sorry, and I want him to. Oh, God! I want him to.” The man lay, frowning sharply at the ceiling. The ineffectual anguish of her cry had touched him, but his pain was growing worse. At last he spoke.