"But at last, reassured by my calmness, he told me, as I leaned on the back of his high office chair. A month more, or perhaps two. Not very much pain, he thought. But certain. And I, faithless, have believed the good God did not listen when I prayed! "Little Elsie is safe and happy with our aunt. Already she seldom talks of me. Yet I have had her, my care, my charge, for almost six years. Children soon forget. There will be a little money for her education, and Aunt wishes to adopt her. There is nothing that I need grieve to leave behind. "If he had still loved me, if it were circumstance that kept our lives apart, I could send for him then; but to die in arms that held me only out of compassion--glad to relinquish their burden as soon as might be--no, I must go without seeing his face again. "And to-night I can only feel the great gladness that it is to be. Suppose I knew that there were twenty-five more such years as these! Suppose it should be a mistake, and I had to live! * * * * * I looked from these last written words to the photograph. My eyes were blurred, but Tom only leaned back, motionless as before, apathetic as before. "How long--" I began, tentatively. "She lived a week after that," Callender replied, in his dry, emotionless voice. "And the man?" "He was my brother," replied Callender. "She never saw him again. He married Miss Stockweis about a month after." I thought of Ralph Callender, cold, correct, slightly bored, as I have always known him, of Miss Stockweis, a dull, purse-proud blonde. I seized the poor little photograph and raised it reverently to my lips. "Forgive me, Tom," I said, slightly abashed. (I never could control my impulses.) "The best thing you can do is to thank God for her death. Think of a woman like that--" "Thank you," said Tom wearily. "Yes, I _am_ glad." And then I grasped the thin brown hand in my own for a moment, and felt it respond faintly to my clasp. We sat as quietly as before in the cheerful, smoke-filled room, I puffing slightly at my Ajar, and Tom's sleepless eyes fixed absently on the wall; and then presently I went to the window and watched the dull gray dawn creep over the still sleeping city. "Well, here's another day," I said with a sigh, turning back to the room. "I must go, old fellow." There was no reply. Startled, I bent over the chair, and looked in the face, scarcely more ivory-white than before. And then I saw that for Callender there would be no more days. THE END.