"What do I think? I think as she says, poor thing! She has done with it all."
"Why do you think so?"
"How can I tell? I know the signs, but I couldn't describe them to any one who hadn't the experience."
"How long do you think it will be?"
"I can't tell that, either. If she lasts over the turn of the night, she will live till sunrise, perhaps till noon. She may last two or three days, but I don't think so."
The nurse was right. At midnight there was a cry made,—
"Behold the Bridegroom cometh!"
Marion was called and came down to find Gerty sighing her life away on her husband's shoulder. She was quite herself, calm and collected, and aware of her situation. She was not afraid, she said. She had been a great sinner, but she believed she had been forgiven. She spoke a few words at longer and longer intervals:
"Marion, whatever your health may be, don't let any doctor get you into the habit of living on stimulants. I always took them—opium or something. I think I shouldn't have been so bad only for that. Give my love to them all at the valley. Tell father he was right."
So died Gertrude Van Alstine, a woman with many admirable qualities, which were made all but useless by her envenomed tongue, by the reckless sarcasm, misrepresentation, and scandal which made her disliked and dreaded by almost every one with whom she had to do.