Jack would be going through that scene with another as his bride; and as the years rolled by he would forget her, or think of her only now and then at times—not with keen regret, but with faint, vague indifference.
Oh, God! if it had been he who was destined to die, she would have shut herself up from the world, and would have lived only for his memory.
Her last prayer would have been, when death's dew gathered on her brow, to be buried beside him.
But men are more fickle than women. How few of them remain true to a dead love!
As she tossed to and fro on her pillow, these thoughts tortured her more than tongue could tell.
Then a strange fancy took possession of her.
The more she thought of it, the more her heart longed to accomplish it, until she could not restrain the longing that seemed to take entire possession of her.
And one day, when she seemed even more ill than usual, she could no longer restrain the impulse to send for Jack.
He came quickly at her bidding, sat down by her couch, caught the little white hand—ah! terribly thin and white now—in his, and raised it to his lips.
"Did you wish me to sit with you, Jessie?" he said. "Or would you like me to read to you?"