“I feel as if they had taken one of those hideous flat stones off a grave and laid it on my chest,” she said, gazing at me with eyes that looked bluer and more staring than those dear grey eyes had ever looked. “What is it? Is there anything wrong with my heart, Hugh! Tell me, is it my _heart_?” (with alarm). “Stuff!” I said. “I let you sit up too long, and you are chilly, that’s all.” Then I began, watching her stealthily, to talk as easily as I could. Her features were paling into an ugly yellow, her eyes were sinking, and her nose looked pinched. Nurse, coming to the bed with a cheerful “Well, dear, are you all right now?” gave me a look that, knowing well enough what was happening, stabbed my very soul. “Rather quick, don’t you think so?” she managed to whisper to me. She need not have whispered. I knew my wife was sinking away from me as fast as any human being has ever sunk from time into eternity. And _how—how_ was she going? “What is making that buzzing noise? I can’t hear you two,” she said presently. “And, Hugh, raise me, or I shall choke!” She was gasping. I raised her. She did not feel cold now. Nurse was fanning her. No hope for anyone to come! I felt desperate. Just then she said, “_You_ fan me; Nurse—baby.” So Nurse gave me the fan and went away. The dying must be obeyed. As I held her—a dead weight—on one arm and fanned her with my disengaged hand, she looked up at me with a terrible look—the most hopeless, yet defiant and angered, look I have ever seen in human eyes. I once saw it in a celebrated picture of “Lucifer at His Condemnation,” and, remembering this, it was hell to see it in my wife’s eyes now. “I must know,” she said, in her altered voice. “Is this _death_?” “It may be,” I faltered. I dared not withhold the awful truth. She smiled—a sneering, derisive smile. “And you still believe in a good God?” she said. “More than ever!” I said, my very life in my words. “Darling, how could I live and see you like this if God did not hold me, help me? I should be like a dead thing—helpless—and you know I am holding you up. I am calm, I can talk, by the mercy of God——” “Hush!” she said, violently, with a tremendous effort raising herself (she was gradually slipping down, hold her how I might). “Do not say any more about _that_. Tell me, how long have I——” “My darling, I have sent for Dr. Taylor; we must not give up hope,” I said. In my agony of despair the words mocked me like so many separate and distinct lies. “He may do something. Why should you die? You are so young——” “I asked you, _how long_?” she repeated. “I have something to say.” “Days—I mean hours,” I stammered, lying hard and fast in my misery. She feebly shook her head. “No, no!” she said; “perhaps in a minute. I want you to promise your dying wife something. Will you—whatever I ask?” “Anything! anything!” I said. “Your will is my will now!” “_Anything?_” she repeated. Drops, those last cold drops, were on her brow.