"She will die," he said, hoarsely. "They cannot save her," and the day after that he came to me again with wistful eyes.
"John," he said, slowly, "my wife is dying, and she wants to see you. Will you see her?"
"Most certainly," I replied.
She smiled when she saw me, and beckoned me to her. Ah, poor soul! her judgment had indeed been taken from me. She whispered to me:
"Promise me that you will never tell him. I am dying! he need never know now. Will you promise me?"
I promised, and she died! I have kept my promise—Lance Fleming knows nothing of what I have told you.
Only Heaven knows how far she sinned or was sinned against. I never see the sunset, or hear the waves come rolling in, without thinking of the tragedy on the pier.
THE END.
[Transcriber's Note: Several typographical errors from the original edition have been corrected.