"I'm dying, am I not, Tristram?" she had asked, and then, reading his face, added gently: "I want to know—really. I'm not afraid to die. Why should I be? There is nothing to fear—only so much to hope. Tell me."
"Anne—little wife—I honestly don't know. So much depends on your will to live——"
Her smile was touched with something of its old wisdom.
"It depends on God, Tris."
He nodded. It was too late to show her where their roads met. He could only acquiesce. And presently she spoke again. "It's all been such a big, sad mistake, hasn't it?"
"What, dear?"
"Our marriage."
He looked into her pinched face, in which only a child-like wistfulness remained. He looked then at her hand, hiding his own smarting eyes.
"I suppose it has. It's my failure——"
"You didn't love me, Tris."