“Oh yes; facts are stubborn things--it is so. And what should we have done if our income had stopped in a moment, as it would have done? A precipice before our feet, and nothing, nothing beyond. Now for you, my darling, it will be far easier. You can sell the house and all that is in it. And they will give you a pension, and the children will have something to begin upon.” “Oh, the children!” she cried, taking his hand into hers, bowing down her face upon it. “Oh, Edward, what are the children between you and me?” She cast them away in that supreme moment; the young creatures all so well, so gay, so hopeful. In her despair and passion she flung their crowding images from her--those images which had forced her husband from her heart. He laughed a low, quiet laugh. “God bless them,” he said; “but I like to have you all to myself, you and me only, for the last moment, Mary. You have been always the best wife that ever was--nay, I won’t say have been--you are my dear, my wife. We don’t understand anything about widows, you and I. Death’s nothing, I think. It looks dreadful when you’re not going. But God manages all that so well. It is as if it were nothing to me. Mary, where are you?” “Here, Edward, holding your hand. Oh, my dear, don’t you see me?” “Yes, yes,” he said, with a faint laugh, as if ashamed at some mistake he had made, and put his other hand over hers with a slight groping movement. “It’s getting late,” he said; “it’s getting rather dark. What time is it? Seven o’clock? You’ll not go down to dinner, Mary? Stay with me. They can bring you something upstairs.” “Go down? Oh, no, no. Do you think I would leave you, Edward?” She had made a little pause of terror before she spoke, for, indeed, it was broad day, the full afternoon sunshine still bright outside, and nothing to suggest the twilight. He sighed again--a soft, pleasurable sigh. “If you don’t mind just sitting by me a little. I see your dear face in glimpses, sometimes as if you had wings and were hovering over me. My head’s swimming a little. Don’t light the candles. I like the half-light; you know I always did. So long as I can see you by it, Mary. Is that a comfortable chair? Then sit down, my love, and let me keep your hand, and I think I’ll get a little sleep.” “It will do you good,” said the poor wife. “Who knows?” he said, with another smile. “But don’t let them light the candles.”