"I have been with Isabel all day," he said, huskily.
Although Bethany had never heard Mrs. Trent's given name before, she knew that he was speaking of his wife.
There was a long pause, which she finally broke by saying, "Don't you see her every day? I thought you were in the habit of going out to her that often."
"O, I have gone there," he answered wearily, "day after day, and day after day, all these long years; but I have never seen Isabel. It has only been a poor, mad creature, who never recognized me. She was always calling for me. The way she used to rave, and pray to be sent back to her husband, would have touched a heart of flint; yet she never knew me when I came. She would grow quiet when I put my arm around her, but she would sit and stare at me in a dumb, confused way that was pitiful. I always hoped that some day she might recognize me. I would sing her old songs to her, and talk about our old home, although the thought of its shattered happiness broke my heart. I tried in every way to bring her to herself. She would listen awhile, and look up at me with a recognition almost dawning in her eyes. Then the tears would begin to roll down her cheeks, and she would beg me to go and find her husband. Yesterday she knew me!" His voice broke. "She came back to me for the first time in eight years,—my own little Isabel! I knew it was only because the frail body was worn out with its terrible struggle, and I could not keep her long. O, such a day as this has been! I have held her in my arms every moment, with her poor, tired head against my heart. She was so glad and happy to find herself with me at last, but the happiness was over so soon."
He buried his face in his hands as before, with a groan. When he spoke again, it was in a dull, mechanical way.
"She died at sundown!"
The tears were running down Bethany's face. She had been standing behind his chair. Now she bent over him, lightly passing her hand over his gray hair, with a comforting caress.
"If I could only do something," she exclaimed, in a voice tremulous with sympathy.
"You can," he answered. "That is why I came. None of her relatives are living. Only my most intimate friends know that she did not die eight years ago, when she was taken away to a sanitarium. I want—" he stopped with a choking in his throat. "The attendants have been very kind, but I want some woman of her own station—some woman who would have been her friend—to put flowers about her—and—smooth her hair, as she would have wanted it done—and—and—see that everything is all fine and beautiful when she is dressed for her last sleep."