"After he 'd gone, she spoke for the first time and asked for some paper and a pencil. I propped her up on the pillows, and all that day between her pains she was writing, writing and tearing up. Towards night she grew worse. I asked her name then, and if she had any friends. She looked at me with a look that made my heart sink; but she give me no answer. About six, she handed me a slip of paper--'A telegram,' she said, and asked me if I would send it right off. I could n't leave her, but when the Doctor come about eight, I slipped out and sent it. The name on it was the one you say was your mother's husband's and the message said: "'I am dying and alone among strangers. Will you come to me for the sake of my child,' and she give me the address. "Come here, my dear," said the woman suddenly to me. I was staring at her, not knowing whether I drew breath or not; "come here to me." I rose mechanically. The woman drew me down upon her knee and put her two strong arms about me. I knew I was in the presence of revelation. "At midnight her child, a girl, was born--the third of December just twenty-six years ago. Doctor Rugvie fought for her life, but he could n't save her. At one she died--of a broken heart and no mistake, so the Doctor said. She refused to give him her name and he left her in peace--that's his way. But before she died she give him an envelope which she filled with some things she 'd been writing in the afternoon, and said: "'Keep them--for my daughter. I trust you.' "Oh, my dear, my dear, the sorrow in this God's earth! I ain't got used to it yet and never shall. That dying face was like an angel's. Doctor Rugvie said he 'd never seen the like before. She spoke only once to him in all her agony, then she said: 'The little life that is coming is worth all this--all--all.' "The next morning there come a telegram from somewhere in New England--I forget where--'Will be with you at two.' "And sure enough, a little after two, a young feller come to the door. He did n't look more 'n twenty, but it seemed from his face as if those twenty years had done something to him 't would generally take a man's lifetime to do, and said he 'd come to claim her who was his wife. That's just what he said, no more, no less: 'I've come to claim her who was my wife. Where is she?' And he give me the telegram. "It was 'bout the hardest thing I 've ever had to do, but I had to tell him just as things was. I thought for a minute he was going to fall he shook so; but he laid hold of the door-jamb and, straightening himself, looked me square in the eye just as composed as Doctor Rugvie himself, and says: "'In that case I have come to claim the body of her who was my wife.' "Those are his very words. I took him into the back room and left 'em alone together. I did n't dare to say a word for his face scairt me.