"Oh," she said, "don't take it so! Don't think of it _that_ way. It would break Jean's heart.... She loved you so! ... And she knew you did n't know how sick she was. Any wife would know that--if her husband loved her, and if she loved him. And you did love her. And she knew you did. She used to tell me how sure she was of your true love--and how precious it was to her, and how much she ... cared for you." Helen's voice faltered on these last three words; she pronounced them with infinite tenderness; it was the pathos of woman pleading for womanhood, or love defending love. "And she would n't want you to be tortured so--_now_. Oh, she would be the first of us all to forgive you for any mistake you made, or any wrong you did. She would understand just how it all came about, better than any of us can--better than you do yourself. Jean always understood. She wanted nothing, nothing in this world, but for you to be happy. She was so grieved because she was sick, and could not go about with you, and make it as cheerful for you at home as she used to do. She used to tell me--oh, she used to tell me so many things about how she felt, and every feeling she ever had was purer and tenderer and truer than the feeling of any other woman that I ever knew! She was the noblest woman--the loveliest, ... and she loved _you_.... Why, she could n't bear it--she could n't _bear_ it, dead up there as she is, if we let you suffer like this, and did not try ... if I did not try to comfort you." Helen's own tears broke her choking words. But the heart-break of the man's sobs came now at last; and they had such a sound that the doctor covered his eyes, and stood with bowed head, as if he had been the culprit, not the judge, before the awful courts of human error, remorse, and love, in which no man may doom his fellow, since God's verdict awaits. "Come, Mr. Avery," said Helen. She stooped and picked up the tea-roses, which had fallen and were scattered on the floor, put them into his cold hand--and then drew away. "She 'd rather you would go up alone," said Helen Thorne. He passed out through the open door. His two friends fell back. The children could be heard in the dining-room: Molly was trying to keep them quiet there. It seemed to him as if he waded through hot-house flowers, the air was so thick with their repugnant scent. He crawled upstairs, steadying himself by the banister. The hall below looked small and dark, like a pit. His head swam, and it occurred to him that if he fell he would fall to a great depth. He clung to the wretched tea-roses that he had brought her. He remembered that this was the last thing he could ever do for her. Outside the door of her room he stopped. His lips stirred. He found himself repeating the old, commonplace words wrung from the despair of mourners since grief was young in the story of the world:-- "It is all over. This is the end." "No," said a distinct voice near him, "it is not the end."