Hours went by, and the hands of the clock pointed to twelve, ere Maddy compelled herself to hear the story Guy had come to tell. She had thrust him from her at first, speaking to him of _Lucy_, his wife, and Guy had answered her, “I have no wife—I never had one. Lucy is in Heaven;” and that was all Maddy knew until the great shock had spent itself in tears and sobs, which became almost convulsions as she tried to realize the fact that Lucy Atherstone was dead; that the bridal robe about which she had written with girlish frankness proved to be her shroud, and that her head that night was not pillowed on Guy’s arm, but resting under English turf and beneath an English sky. She could listen at last, but her breath came in panting gasps; while Guy told her how, on the very morning of the bridal, Lucy had greeted him with her usual bright smile, appearing and looking better than he had seen her look since he reached her mother’s home; how for an hour they sat together alone in a little room sacred to her, because years before it was there he confessed his love. Seated on a low ottoman, with her golden head lying on his lap, she had this morning told him, in her artless way, how much she loved him, and how hard it sometimes was to make her love for the creature second to her love for the Creator; told him she was not faultless, and asked that when he found how erring and weak she was, he would bear with her frailties as she would bear with his; talked with him, too, of Maddy Clyde, confessing, in a soft, low tone, how once or twice a pang of jealousy had wrung her heart when she read his praises of his pupil. But she had conquered that; she had prayed it all away, and now, next to her own sister, she loved Maddy Clyde. Other words, too, were spoken—words of guileless, pure affection, too sacred even for Guy to breathe to Maddy; and then Lucy had left him, her bounding step echoing through the hall and up the winding stairs, down which she never came again alive, for when Guy next looked upon her, she was lying white and still, her neck and dress and golden hair stained with the pale life-blood oozing from her livid lips. A blood-vessel had been suddenly ruptured, the physician said, adding that it was what he had been fearing for some time, and now it had come—and there was no hope. They told her she must die, for the mother would have them tell her. Once, for a few moments, there was on her face a frightened look, such as a harmless bird might wear when suddenly caught in a snare. But that soon passed away as from beneath the closed eyelids the great tears came gushing, and the stained lips whispered faintly: “God knows best what is right. Poor Guy!—break it gently to him.” At this point in the story Guy broke down entirely, sobbing as only strong men can sob.