"You want to see Moses?"
"Very much; but I shall see him as soon as it is best for us both."
"Mara,—he is come."
The quick blood flushed over the pale, transparent face as a virgin glacier flushes at sunrise, and she looked up eagerly. "Come!"
"Yes, he is below-stairs wanting to see you."
She seemed about to speak eagerly, and then checked herself and mused a moment. "Poor, poor boy!" she said. "Yes, Sally, let him come at once."
There were a few dazzling, dreamy minutes when Moses first held that frail form in his arms, which but for its tender, mortal warmth, might have seemed to him a spirit. It was no spirit, but a woman whose heart he could feel thrilling against his own; who seemed to him like some frail, fluttering bird; but somehow, as he looked into her clear, transparent face, and pressed her thin little hands in his, the conviction stole over him overpoweringly that she was indeed fading away and going from him,—drawn from him by that mysterious, irresistible power against which human strength, even in the strongest, has no chance.
It is dreadful to a strong man who has felt the influence of his strength,—who has always been ready with a resource for every emergency, and a weapon for every battle,—when first he meets that mighty invisible power by which a beloved life—a life he would give his own blood to save—melts and dissolves like smoke before his eyes.
"Oh, Mara, Mara," he groaned, "this is too dreadful, too cruel; it is cruel."
"You will think so at first, but not always," she said, soothingly. "You will live to see a joy come out of this sorrow."