He saw and thanked her for the effort, felt the sustaining power of a true wife’s heart, and seemed to have no other care, since she was by him steadfast to the end. He lay looking at her with such serene and happy eyes that she would not let a tear, a murmur, mar his peace; and for a little while she felt as if she had gone out of this turbulent world into a heavenly one, where love reigned supreme. But such hours are as brief as beautiful, and at midnight mortal suffering proved that immortal joy had not yet begun. Christie had sat by many death-beds, but never one like this; for, through all the bitter pangs that tried his flesh, David’s soul remained patient and strong, upheld by the faith that conquers pain and makes even Death a friend. In the quiet time that went before, he had told his last wishes, given his last messages of love, and now had but one desire,—to go soon that Christie might be spared the trial of seeing suffering she could neither lighten nor share. “Go and rest, dear; go and rest,” he whispered more than once. “Let Wilkins come: this is too much for you. I thought it would be easier, but I am so strong life fights for me inch by inch.” But Christie would not go, and for her sake David made haste to die. Hour after hour the tide ebbed fast, hour after hour the man’s patient soul sat waiting for release, and hour after hour the woman’s passionate heart clung to the love that seemed drifting away leaving her alone upon the shore. Once or twice she could not bear it, and cried out in her despair: “No, it is not just that you should suffer this for a creature whose whole life is not worth a day of your brave, useful, precious one! Why did you pay such a price for that girl’s liberty?” she said, as the thought of her own wrecked future fell upon her dark and heavy. “Because I owed it;—she suffered more than this seeing her baby die;—I thought of you in her place, and I could not help doing it.” The broken answer, the reproachful look, wrung Christie’s heart, and she was silent: for, in all the knightly tales she loved so well, what Sir Galahad had rescued a more wretched, wronged, and helpless woman than the poor soul whose dead baby David buried tenderly before he bought the mother’s freedom with his life? Only one regret escaped him as the end drew very near, and mortal weakness brought relief from mortal pain. The first red streaks of dawn shone in the east, and his dim eyes brightened at the sight; “Such a beautiful world!” he whispered with the ghost of a smile, “and so much good work to do in it, I wish I could stay and help a little longer,” he added, while the shadow deepened on his face. But soon he said, trying to press Christie’s hand, still holding his: “You will do my part, and do it better than I could. Don’t mourn, dear heart, but work; and by and by you will be comforted.” [Illustration: “DON’T MOURN, DEAR HEART, BUT WORK.”]