"With the absence of everything." He had a dreadful sense of standing there before her for--so far as anything but this proved, this bottomless drop was concerned--the last time of their life. It rested on him with a weight he felt he could scarce bear, and this weight it apparently was that still pressed out what remained in him of speakable protest. "I believe you; but I can't begin to pretend I understand. _Nothing_, for me, is past; nothing _will_ pass till I pass myself, which I pray my stars may be as soon as possible. Say, however," he added, "that I've eaten my cake, as you contend, to the last crumb--how can the thing I've never felt at all be the thing I was marked out to feel?" She met him perhaps less directly, but she met him unperturbed. "You take your 'feelings' for granted. You were to suffer your fate. That was not necessarily to know it." "How in the world--when what is such knowledge but suffering?" She looked up at him a while in silence. "No--you don't understand." "I suffer," said John Marcher. "Don't, don't!" "How can I help at least _that_?" "_Don't_!" May Bartram repeated. She spoke it in a tone so special, in spite of her weakness, that he stared an instant--stared as if some light, hitherto hidden, had shimmered across his vision. Darkness again closed over it, but the gleam had already become for him an idea. "Because I haven't the right--?" "Don't _know_--when you needn't," she mercifully urged. "You needn't--for we shouldn't." "Shouldn't?" If he could but know what she meant! "No-- it's too much." "Too much?" he still asked but with a mystification that was the next moment of a sudden to give way. Her words, if they meant something, affected him in this light--the light also of her wasted face--as meaning _all_, and the sense of what knowledge had been for herself came over him with a rush which broke through into a question. "Is it of that then you're dying?" She but watched him, gravely at first, as to see, with this, where he was, and she might have seen something or feared something that moved her sympathy. "I would live for you still--if I could." Her eyes closed for a little, as if, withdrawn into herself, she were for a last time trying. "But I can't!" she said as she raised them again to take leave of him.