“Dear Frank—dearest Frank—I see that you know it all at last. Dearest Frank, I have known it a long time. Now let us talk freely and confidentially about it—let there be no more of that painful mist between us as when you thought only of my restoration to health, and I knew I was sinking fast into the grave.” She paused a moment, and then said—“I want so much to comfort you. I have something to say to you.” His fingers closed upon her hand convulsively. He choked down his strong, rising emotion, and said— “Do not try to talk, love, the effort will exhaust your strength.” “No—no, it will not. I am not so weak as I was when you came in. Dearest Frank, when you sit by me, and hold my hand, new life seems to run up my feeble veins, and I feel stronger. Let me talk, love. Ah! do not look so sad! It is better as it is, love. It is better I should go. I have spoiled my own life, and should spoil yours if I should live. Ah, it is a dreadful thing to occasion the death of any one! it is an awful thing to cause the death of a father. I caused the death of the most loving father that ever lived. And dearest Frank! though in the struggle, in the bitterness of poverty, in the pangs of hunger and of cold, and in the pain and debility of illness, the feeling of compunction has been diverted, yet—had health returned with prosperity—remorse would then have darkened all my life; and in ruining my happiness, would have marred yours. Yes! I have spoiled my own life. It is well that I should not live to spoil yours, dearest Frank! I talk not of expiation _now_. Nothing that I could do or suffer, would alter the irrevocable past. We have all one Redeemer—Jesus Christ the Righteous. So I talk not of expiating the past; though perhaps if any heart is hardened against me, my early death may soften it. But, let me speak of the future—_your_ future, dearest Frank, and let me say it is better for all your coming years that I should die.” “Oh, do not say so, Zuleime—you break my heart.” “Dear Frank, you will grieve for me, I know you will, but be comforted. You are so young yet. This sorrow will pass like a morning cloud, and leave all your life a long bright day.” She paused abruptly—a gray shadow swept darkly over her face and vanished. _He_ did not see it, his face was buried in his hands. Then she asked to have her child brought to her. Frank went out, but soon returned to say that little Fan had been put to bed; and to ask her if the child should be waked up. “No, do not wake the poor, little thing,” she said, and then added, “I am very, very sleepy, Frank; dearest Frank, kiss my eyelids down to slumber like you always do, and hold my hand till I fall asleep. Kiss my lips, too, this time; kiss them last of all—there—good-night, love.” Her voice sank away in a low, inaudible murmur, like a dying sound on the Eolian harp.