Franz clasped her hands fast in both of his, as though through sheer physical strength he would keep her with him. As yet she had indicated by no sign that she understood what was going on about her. It was always the same tired tossing, but with greater weakness there slowly succeeded greater calm. With a fixed rapt look Franz's gaze sought her face and never wavered; it preserved its direction as steadily from beneath his broad straight brows as though he really saw. She turned restlessly for the thousandth time, and as he had a thousand times already, he whispered softly, “Margaret.” Hitherto his words had fallen on deaf ears, now the head moved upon the pillow—the sweet wan face was raised to his. “Margaret,” he said, “Margaret, do you hear me? My little wife! My little wife!” As he spoke her eyes opened. The room was unlighted save for the night-lamp burning on the table, and peering at her in the gloom with those sunken sightless eyes of his, was her husband. She remembered all. “Franz! Franz!” she cried, in a voice so faint as scarcely to be audible. “It was not a dream? I meant you should have so much,—say you forgive me!” “You must not grieve, dear,” he said tenderly. “You must not think of me now.” “It was all so beautiful until he came,” she said dreamily; “I have been so happy with you, dear, so happy.” There was infinite regret and infinite tenderness in her all but inarticulate speech. They were silent for a while, then Margaret said: “It is good-by we are saying, Franz. Who would imagine there would be so little to say?” Franz bent over her, desolation in his soul. “What was that?” she asked, her voice fainter than before. “I thought it very quiet, dear,” he answered. “Perhaps it is the wind.” “How many days ago was it?” she questioned. “You mean when you were taken ill, dear? It was four days ago.” “So many days ago as that? Where are the others?” “They are here. My mother, Mrs. Perkins, Ballard and Philip. Would you like to see them, dear?” “Only you, Franz. Take my love to them.” Her voice had become the gentlest of murmurs, but the small white hand continued to stroke his face, though with a faltering movement. Then the soft caress stopped; a sigh escaped her; she appeared to slip from his grasp—to shrink within his arms. “Margaret!” he said. “Margaret!” and his lips were ashen and tremulous. He allowed her to fall limply to the pillow. He waited a moment, then springing to his feet he started for the door. And as he groped his way, there burst from his quivering lips a great cry. “Margaret! Margaret!” XIV It was the second evening after Margaret's death, and the night of Barbara's marriage to Shelden.