She took a swallow or two of the tea, looked at the toast and pushed it away. She had been ill for a week, she said, and had eaten nothing for two days. I did what little I could for her comfort, and when I went to say good-night, she held my hand; the tears, one after another, came from the deep, dark eyes, fell across the pale cheeks, and were lost in the ghastly yellow hair.
“Don’t think I weep because I am afraid of death,” she said. “I am so glad now, that I know that it’s all over, but I am sorry for mamma; it will kill her.”
I asked, and she gave me her address in Denver, and I promised to call.
When the train stopped at the gate of the beautiful city, she had called her home, some men came with an invalid chair, and when I saw them take her to a carriage I hurried on to my hotel.
That afternoon I called to ask after the girl. The windows were open, and I could see a few people standing about the room with bowed heads. Dr. O’Connor came down the little walk that lay from the door of a neat cottage to the street, and without recognizing me, closed the gate softly, turned his back to me and hurried away.
Inez Boyd was dead. God in His mercy, had called her away to save her from a life of sorrow, sin and shame, and He called her just in time.
In the “Two Voices,” Tennyson says:
“Whatever crazy sorrow saith,
No life that breathes with human breath
Has ever truly longed for death.”