It became a matter of care to me to observe each Sunday whether the health of either had varied during the previous week. The husband, always pale and slight, showed little change and that infrequently. But the fluctuations of the woman as indicated by complexion, gait, expression and otherwise, were numerous and pronounced. Often she looked brighter and more robust than on the preceding Sunday. Her face would be then rounded out, and the dark crescents beneath her eyes would be less marked. Then I found myself elated. But on the next Sunday the cheeks had receded slightly, the healthy lustre of the eyes had given way to an ominous glow, the warning of death had returned. Then my heart would sink, and, sighing, I would murmur inaudibly: “This is one of the bad Sundays.” There came a time when every Sunday was a bad one. What made me love this woman? Simply the unmistakable completeness and constancy of her devotion to her husband,--the absorption of the woman in the wife. Had the strange ways of chance ever made known to her my feelings, and had she swerved from that devotion even to render me back love for love, then my own adoration for her would surely have departed. Yes, I loved her,--if to fill one's life with thoughts of a woman, if in fancy to see her face by day and night, if to have the will to die for her or to bear pain for her, if those and many more things mean love. My richest joy was to see her content with her husband, and the darkest woe of my life was to anticipate the termination of their happiness. So the Sundays passed. One afternoon I waited until almost dusk, yet the couple did not appear. For seven Sundays in succession I did not meet them upon their wonted walk. On the eighth Sunday I saw the dog first, then the man. The latter was looking over the railing. The woman was not with him. Apprehensively I sought with my eyes his face. Much grief and loneliness were depicted there. Was he or I the greater mourner? I wondered. I suppose two years passed after that day ere I again beheld the widower--whose name I did not and probably never shall know--upon the bridge. The dog was not with him this time. It was a fine, sunny afternoon in May. Grief was no longer in his face. By his side was a very pretty, animated, rosy little woman whom I had never seen before. They walked close to each other, and she looked with the utmost tenderness into his face. She evidently was not yet entirely accustomed to the wedding-ring which I observed on her finger. I think that tears came to my eyes at this sight. Those great brown eyes, the plush sack, the lovely face that had borne the impress of sorrow so speedily, had felt death--those might never have existed, so soon had they been forgotten by the one being in the world for whom that face had worn the aspect of a perfect love.