Isabel was living in the same house with him day after day. She was no visitor, but went in and out of the room with the step of one who is at home. If he grew weary and dozed a moment, she would still be sitting there when he awoke. She was wearing home things. One morning when she had been busied in the kitchen preparing some little delicacy for him, she had left her task for a moment to see if he needed anything; and as she had bent over him, she had worn a household apron,--a wife's apron. Yes, she was at home, she would never leave him again, never leave him--till he died. "Oh, Isabel--to die!" he moaned one night as she sat by his side. "But think, dear," she answered, with her head turned away, "think of Jenny." "Perhaps there _is_ no Jenny." No Jenny! Isabel's heart gave a little cry. No Jenny! Then there could be no harm ... "Theophil," she said, after a silence, "have you forgotten something we said to each other that day,--something we promised?" For answer he looked at her with awed and suddenly enlightened eyes. "Do you mean that?" he asked. "You mustn't mean that." "Do you think I could care any more for life?" she asked. "Would you?" "No," he answered simply. "May I, then?" His eyes could alone answer. He knew her love too well to affect that there would be any loss to her in the life she would thus be leaving. "But Jenny?" "If Jenny is there, she will understand now." I can conceive no happier, completer moment than that which followed for these two, no more unassailable peace. If their lives were to be quite put out, they would be extinguished together; if they were to begin anew elsewhere, they would begin anew together; and meanwhile nothing that could happen could harm them, could rob them of the desire of their hearts. At the worst, they would attain their best; at the very least, they would win their most: they would die together. To end together. It matters not how few or many years love and the beloved live their days side by side, even though their love be but the morning and the evening of one divine day, so that there be no bereaved and lonely to-morrow. The hour that takes one and not the other takes with it too all the accumulated happiness of all the years. That hour these two were to escape. Yet was there no need of haste. So long as they might, they would sit together in the sun of life. For a little longer they would say, "How wonderful life is!"--for a little longer make sure of each other. Your eyes, Isabel! Your hair, Isabel! Your dear mouth, Isabel! A little longer. "Shall we go to-night?" "Not yet...perhaps to-morrow, Isabel." But Theophil was now very near death, and he might forget if he lingered on much more. Not wearily, but with music and singing must they pass through the strange gate of Death.