"Lauraine, go to Keith Athelstone; I command you. If there is time--if you see him alive tell him I bade you go--tell him I ask his pardon for the wrong I have done him. Go, child; why do you linger here--every moment is precious. Do you think I am so altogether selfish that I cannot see how you suffer--cannot feel all you have done--for me? Go." "But you," she says hesitatingly; "you need me; you wished me to stay." "I am better. I feel stronger," he says, with brave effort. "And the worst is over; you need not fear for me. I have wronged you enough. Let me feel I have tried to do one unselfish action--even at the last." She looks at his face--at the drawn, sharpened features, the sunken eyes, the hollow cheeks. A sudden fear and reproach smite her. "I cannot leave you," she says, with a burst of tears. "We have been most unhappy, I know, but you are my husband--my child's father." "And the man for whom you have no love. Child! do not waste time in folly. At a moment like this we see things as they are--naked, bare, undisguised. Take my message to him, and comfort him with your presence. It is the one thing I can do for you both; and I do it with all my heart. Spare no expense--gold will speed your journey, and I--I shall wait here till I know--he has forgiven." Still she hesitates. Still she feels as if she were in some way wronging the man to whom duty binds her, for sake of the man she loves. He grows impatient. "For me the worst is past. I shall do very well now. Are you scrupulous as to that?--know no fear. You have been obedient in all things that caused you suffering. Can you not be it for one thing that you desire? Must I storm--insist?" "Oh, hush," she says passionately; "it is so hard--if only I knew-- "You do know. I bid you go, and that without an evil thought--you have but to obey." Then she leaves him. He listens to the hurried preparations. A strange, feverish strength seems to have come to him. As he has said, it is the one really unselfish action he has ever performed in his life. For though he has bidden her leave him, he is longing for her presence. He knows his own hours are numbered, despite the hopes held out. He knows that to have her with him during the dreadful ordeal through which he has to pass would be the only comfort that life holds. He shudders as he lies there face to face with death, as the cold waters of the great river seem to flow on--on--up to his very feet; and in that awful passage there will be no voice to whisper comfort, no prayers from that low, sweet woman's voice to tell of peace, of hope, of the gates of mercy standing open yet, even to the greatest of sinners. He shudders, and the cold dews of anguish stand upon his brow. But he is strong still, strong enough to hide the truth from her. She comes to bid him farewell, and he looks long and sorrowfully at the fair, sad face. How changed she is, how changed!