"Mother, Julia," I said, "I promise that if ever I can be true in heart and soul to a wife, I will ask Julia to become mine. But it may be many years hence; I dare not say how long. God alone knows how dear Olivia is to me. And Julia is too good to waste herself upon so foolish a fellow. She may change, and see some one she can love better." "That is nonsense, Martin," answered Julia, with a ring of the old sharpness in her tone; "at my age I am not likely to fall in love again.--Don't be afraid, aunt; I shall not change, and I will take care of Martin. His home is ready, and he will come back to me some day, and it will all be as you wish." I know that promise of ours comforted her, for she never lamented over my coming solitude again. I have very little more I can say about her. When I look back and try to write more fully of those last, lingering days, my heart fails me. The darkened room, the muffled sounds, the loitering, creeping, yet too rapid hours! I had no time to think of Julia, of Olivia, or of myself; I was wrapped up in her. One evening--we were quite alone--she called me to come closer to her, in that faint, far-off voice of hers, which seemed already to be speaking from another world. I was sitting so near to her that I could touch her with my hand, but she wanted me nearer--with my arm across her, and my cheek against hers. "My boy," she whispered, "I am going." "Not yet, mother," I cried; "not yet! I have so much to say. Stay with me a day or two longer." "If I could," she murmured, every word broken with her panting breath, "I would stay with you forever! Be patient with your father, Martin. Say good-by for me to him and Julia. Don't stir. Let me die so!" "You shall not die, mother," I said, passionately. "There is no pain," she whispered--"no pain at all; it is taken away. I am only sorry for my boy. What will he do when I am gone? Where are you, Martin?" "I am here, mother!" I answered--"close to you. O God! I would go with you if I could." Then she lay still for a time, pressing my arm about her with her feeble fingers. Would she speak to me no more? Had the dearest voice in the world gone away altogether into that far-off, and, to us, silent country whither the dying go? Dumb, blind, deaf to _me_? She was breathing yet, and her heart fluttered faintly against my arm. Would not my mother know me again? "O Martin!" she murmured, "there is great love in store for us all! I did not know how great the love was till now!" There had been a quicker, more irregular throbbing of her heart as she spoke. Then--I waited, but there came no other pulsation. Suddenly I felt as if I also must be dying, for I passed into a state of utter darkness and unconsciousness. CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH. A DISCONSOLATE WIDOWER.