They had placed her upon a couch where she lay with a sweet smile upon her lips, but they were cold when I kissed them--her heart had ceased to beat, and for the first time in all our lives there was no answering pressure when I took her hands in mine. Oh, the agony of that moment! No tongue can tell, no pen describe, the awful loneliness of that hour. She had been part of my life--of me. I could not live without her; I did not want to try. Oh, God! How could I bear it? What should I do? I had given her my love, my life, and now she was dead--everything was swept away and there was absolutely nothing to live for. If I could only die! Dare I take my own life? No, for that would then mean everlasting separation, as she was doubtless now in the happiest state to which mortals could be assigned. I must try to reach her no matter at what cost. For hours I knelt beside her with her hands in mine, and my cheek beside her cold one. I was again talking to Olga, as I fondled her face, her hair, her hands. "Speak to me, my darling," I pleaded, "if only once more. I cannot live without you. Why did you leave me? How could you go without telling me? Surely you did not intend to do it, did you, darling?" Eagerly I watched her face to see her blue eyes open and her lips once more move. Could I bring her back by calling her? It might be so; and then I tried, repeating her name again and again, tenderly, lovingly, oh, so lovingly! Hours passed thus. The smile on her lips remained. Presently I listened, my arms about her neck and my head upon her breast. I was quiet now. The awful storm which had well-nigh uprooted my very soul was gradually subsiding. I must be ready to hear her if she should come back with a message. This I believed she would do. Many times we had talked together of these things, and each had faithfully promised the other to return, if possible, with comfort and assistance from the mysterious beyond in the event of a separation by death. I could see her now as she looked while speaking, and then I grew calmer immediately. I would wait. By and by it came--only two words. "The letter." The letter! Where was it? I had not seen it--I had not thought to look for such a thing because her departure came so suddenly. A burning building close to our cabin, with wind blowing the flames toward her, had caused the fright and heart failure which deprived me of Olga--but a letter! I would search for it. Among her writing materials I found it. A sealed packet, directed to me in her own dainty Swedish handwriting.