The terrible cough came again. As soon as the fit was over, with a grand despair in his heart, Robert went from behind the screen.
Ericson was on a couch. His head lay on Mary St. John's bosom. Neither saw him.
'Perhaps,' said Ericson, panting with death, 'a kiss in heaven may be as good as being married on earth, Mary.'
She saw Robert and did not answer. Then Eric saw him. He smiled; but Mary grew very pale.
Robert came forward, stooped and kissed Ericson's forehead, kneeled and kissed Mary's hand, rose and went out.
From that moment they were both dead to him. Dead, I say—not lost, not estranged, but dead—that is, awful and holy. He wept for Eric. He did not weep for Mary yet. But he found a time.
Ericson died two days after.
Here endeth Robert's youth.