"Is it true, Rex, that I must die?" she gasped. The look of anguish on his face answered her. "Rex," she whispered, clinging like a child to his strong white hands, "my hope and trust are in you, my only son. I am going to put your love to the test, my boy. I beseech you to say 'Yes' to the last request I shall ever make of you. Heaven knows, Rex, I would not mention it now, but I am dying--yes, dying, Rex." "You need not doubt it, mother," he replied, earnestly, "I can not refuse anything you may ask! Why should I?" But, as he spoke, he had not the faintest idea of what he would be asked to do. As he spoke his eyes caught the gleam of the moonlight through the window, and his thoughts traveled for one moment to the beloved face he had seen in the moonlight--how fair and innocent the face was as they parted on the night they were wed! The picture of that lonely young girl-wife, going home by herself, brought tears to his eyes. "Was there ever a fate so cruel?" he said to himself. "Who ever lost a wife on his wedding-day?" Surely there had never been a love-dream so sweet, so passionate, or so bright as his. Surely there had never been one so rudely broken. Poor little Daisy--his wife--lying cold and still in death. Even his mother was to be taken from him. The feeble pressure of his mother's hands recalled his wandering thoughts. "Listen, Rex," she whispered, faintly, "my moments are precious." He felt his mother's arms clasp closely round his neck. "Go on, mother," he said, gently. "Rex, my son," she whispered, gaspingly, "I could not die and leave the words unspoken. I want my race to live long generations after me. Your poor little lame sister will go unmarried to the grave; and now all rests with you, my only son. You understand me, Rex; you know the last request I have to ask." For the first time a cry came to Rex's lips; her words pierced like a sword in his heart. "Surely, mother, you do not mean--you do not think I could ever--" The very horror of the thought seemed to completely unman him. "You will marry again," she interrupted, finishing the sentence he could not utter. "Remember, she whom you loved is dead. I would not have asked this for long years to come, but I am dying--I must speak now." "My God, mother!" he cried out in agony, "ask anything but that. My heart is torn and bleeding; have pity on me, have pity!" Great drops of agony started on his brow; his whole frame shook with agitation. He tried to collect himself, to gather his scattered thoughts, to realize the full import of the words she had spoken. Marry again! Heaven pity him! How could he harbor such a thought for a single instant, when he thought of the pale, cold face of little Daisy--his fair young bride--whom he so madly loved, lying pale and still in death, like a broken lily, down in the dark, bottomless pit which never yielded up its terrible secrets!