“Now, I think.”
We had often talked of this, and she had promised to remember it, whatever it might be. So I told her—But I will not write what I told her.
I saw that she was playing weakly with her wedding-ring, which hung very loosely below its little worn guard.
“Take the little guard,” she said, “and keep it for Faith; but bury the other with me: he put it on; nobody else must take it—”
The sentence dropped, unfinished.
I crept up on the bed beside her, for she seemed to wish it. I asked if I should light the lamp, but she shook her head. The room seemed light, she said, quite light. She wondered then if Faith were asleep, and if she would waken early in the morning.
After that I kissed her, and then we said nothing more, only presently she asked me to hold her hand.
It was quite dark when she turned her face at last towards the window.
“John!” she said,—“why, John!”
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