Happy! With a return of the old bare life--the rough, purposeless life that she had made bloom with new thoughts? He would drift back to the old conditions; there would be nothing to keep him from it when her gentle influence had relaxed. And that “afterward” of which she spoke so often, and so hopefully! It would be black and barren enough, his heart whispered to him--she would be where her voice could not reach him and he would be alone with his sorrow. A picture of the crucifixion hung upon the wall; a slanting ray from the dim light brought out the world’s great tragedy with piteous distinctness. But the lesson brought no consolation to Larry. He looked at the picture with vacant eyes, for his brain was numb, and he could think of nothing but his impending loss. Philosophy is a meaningless word to such as he; for they who grapple with poverty, and go wrestling through a gloom from birth to death, find it hard to submit. “Are you crying, Rosie?” asked the weak voice. “Don’t, dear; you promised not to, you know.” Rosie’s face rested upon the pillow beside her, and Mary stroked the tear-wet cheek, softly. “I’m sorry that I didn’t see it long ago,” said she, sadly; “sorry for you, and Larry. But it won’t be long now, and you both will be very happy.” Her voice trembled a little but she continued, bravely: “Promise me that you will think of me sometimes, Rosie?” “I’ll never forget you, Mary,” sobbed the girl. “And don’t let Larry forget me, either,” eagerly. “And try and be a good wife to him, Rosie.” Both Rosie and the young man lifted their heads quickly and looked at each other, searchingly. From far down the street came a faint, musical drone as of minor voices singing; the bell of St. Michael’s boomed the hour solemnly; quick footsteps went by the house, grew faint and then died away. “Do you think,” Rosie’s voice trembled in dread, “that she’s dyin’, Larry?” He had approached the bed and was looking down at the pale face framed in the dark, loose hair. She smiled up into his eyes. “She will be good to you, Larry; she has a kind heart and will be a better wife to you than I could have been.” “Mary!” “You were kind to me when I was left alone, Larry; you would have married me because you felt sorry for me. But you’ll be free now; and I have prayed that she’ll be as happy as I was--before I knew!” “Don’t talk like that, Mary! It was you that was sorry for me! It was you--” but his voice broke in a dry sob. “Hush!” a pleading look crept into her eyes. “Don’t let anything stand in the way of your happiness, Larry; don’t let any thoughts of me--any regrets--keep you apart. Promise me that!” He knelt and covered his face with his hands, the deep, hard sobs racking him from head to foot; and as he made no answer, Mary turned her eyes upon Rosie. “You will promise, I know,” said she. “Oh, Mary, Mary I can’t! Please don’t ask me!”