"Poor David!" murmured his wife, clinging to him. "But I am sure all will yet be well, David. Have no fear, my husband."
She murmured on in the dark, with his arm about her, and promised him death, entreated him to believe with her, and coaxed him with the bait of the grave. They were bride and groom again, they two, and slept at last in one another's arms.
In the morning all was well with Christina, and she bustled about as of old. David was still, and hoped ever, with a tired content in what should happen, a languor that forbade him from railing on fate. Together they prepared matters as for a journey.
"If the black trousers come frayed again," said Christina, "try to remember that the scissors are better than a knife. And the seeds are all in the box under our bed."
"In the box under our bed," repeated David carefully. "Yes, under the bed. I will remember."
"And this, David," holding up piles of white linen, "this is for me.
You will not forget?"
"For you?" he queried, not understanding.
"Yes," she answered softly. "I will be buried in this."
He started, but recovered himself with a quivering lip.
"Of course," he answered. "I will see to it. I must be very old,
Christina."