“It does matter,” Paul Tressalia burst forth, indignantly; “if this air is too heavy and bracing for you, you should not be allowed to remain here another day. Do you not see that your health is failing? You are weaker and thinner even than when I came, a week ago.” She smiled faintly, and, lifting her thin hand, held it up between her eyes and the sun. It shone almost transparent, while every bone, vein, and cord could be distinctly traced. With a little sign she let it drop again into her lap, and, turning to her companion, said, with a grave, thoughtful look on her face: “I wonder what the spiritual body will be like?” “Miss Dalton—Editha, what made you think of that?” he asked, startled by her words, yet knowing very well what had made her think of it—that little hand had more of a spiritual than a material look about it. “One cannot help thinking of it when the physical body is so frail and so easily destroyed. When one is putting off the mortal, one naturally is curious to know what the immortal is like;” and she spoke as calmly as if she were merely talking of changing a dress. “Editha, you are not—you do not think you are so ill as that?” he cried, almost awe-stricken. “Yes, I hope so; what have I to live for now?” she asked, turning her sad eyes upon him, and his heart sank in despair within him. “You know all my trouble,” she added, a moment after; “you know how all my hopes were crushed. I am, as I might say, entirely alone in the world; I have hardly a friend on whom to depend, no one to comfort and cheer me, and I have no right even to the name I bear. Do you think that life holds out very much that is pleasant to me? I am young to die, and I cannot say that I do not dread the thought of being laid away and forgotten, and yet I know it would cure my pain—there _is_ no pain beyond, you know. If I had anything to do, if I might be of any comfort or use to _any_ one, if I had even _one_ friend who needed me, I should feel differently.” The sadness and hopelessness of her tone and words almost made him weep in spite of his manhood. He threw himself down upon the grass beside her, with a low cry. “Editha, there _is_; _I_ need you; my heart has never ceased to cry out for you; my life is miserable and aimless without you. Come to me and comfort me, and let me try to win back the light in your eyes, the color to your cheeks and lips, and nurse you back to health. I do not ask, I do not _expect_, that you can learn to love me at once as you _have_ loved, but if you will only let me take care of you, give _me_ the right to love _you_ all I wish, I do believe there may be something of peace for you yet even in this world. But I _cannot_ see you die while you are so young and bright. Be my wife, Editha, and let me take you away from this noise and tumult where you can regain your health, and the world will not seem so dark to you then.”