“The wind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies,
When love is done.”
“You sent for me?” he said, gently, as he looked down at the emaciated form before him. Her eyes were unnaturally brilliant, her brow, with the thick, clustering curls brushed back from it, was as white as marble; the nose was sharp and had that pinched expression which is so sure a forerunner of dissolution. On each cheek was a small, red spot which indicated the fever which was consuming her. The chest heaved rapidly and as the clergyman leaned over her and looked into the hazel depths, he laid his hand almost caressingly upon her head.
At that touch she caught his hand in both her own frail palms, and sobbed, “Yes, I asked to have a clergyman sent to me.”
“I am James Townsend, the rector of St. Anne’s,” he said.
But before he had disclosed his identity she had fainted. He hastily summoned assistance and in a few moments she was restored to consciousness, although very weak.
He sat down near her couch and quietly stroked the masses of hair, the only charm left her by the ravages of disease. Her face seemed to him to be strangely familiar, and as she laid with closed eyes he had ample opportunity to study it as intently as he wished.
Where had he seen that face before? He bent more closely and, as if attracted by the scrutinizing gaze, she slowly lifted the deep fringed lids until her eyes met his.