I was a dead man. But like any living of them all—oh, more than any living—I loved my wife. I loved her more because I had been cruel to her than if I had been kind. I loved her more because we had parted so bitterly than if we had parted lovingly. I loved her more because I had died than if I had lived. I must see my wife! I must find my wife! I must say to her—I must tell her— Why, who in all the world but me could do anything for Helen now?
Out into the morning air I rushed, and got the breeze in my face, and up the thronging street as spirits do, unnoted and unknown of men, I passed; solitary in the throng, silent in the outcry, unsentient in the press.
The sun was strong. The day was cool. The dome of the sky hung over me, too, as over those who raised their breathing faces to its beauty. I, too, saw, as I fled on, that the day was fair. I heard the human voices say:
"What a morning!"
"It puts the soul into you!" said a burly stock speculator to a railroad treasurer; they stood upon the steps of the Exchange, laughing, as I brushed by.
"It makes life worth while," said a healthy elderly woman, merrily, making the crossing with the light foot that a light heart gives.
"It makes life possible," replied a pale young girl beside her, coming slowly after.
"Poor fellow!" sighed a stranger whom I hit in hurrying on. "It was an ugly way to die. Nice air, this morning!"
"He will be a loss to the community," replied this man's companion. "There isn't a doctor in town who has his luck with fevers. You can't convince my wife he didn't save her life last winter. Frost, last night, wasn't there? Very invigorating morning!"
Now, at the head of the street some ladies were standing, waiting for a car. I was delayed in passing them, and as I stepped back to change my course I saw that one of them was speaking earnestly, and that her eyes showed signs of weeping.