When they came back, they found him there, alone. He lay prone, on the rug, before the great chair. The moonlight was upon his face; which was not well. Crimson petals, like drops of blood, were upon it; and the redness was crushed between his clutching fingers.
Muriel did not see; for the friend such as few men may ever hope to have and, having, may pray to keep, had thrust the child behind him.
For a long, long time they stood there…. Then slowly, the woman that had been wife turned—her head sunk forward…. She had suffered much, and yet there was in her still the power to suffer; but it was now the suffering of pity—of utter, utter pity…. Head sunk forward, she reeled a little. The man, standing beside her, caught her in strong arm, that she might not fall…. For a tiny moment she rested there—the only rest that she had known since It had come into her life. And who shall say that she was wrong? or he?
Side by side they stood, and gazed upon their dead. They held the little child that she might not see…. Then slowly they turned, and left…. And in the end, perhaps, came to them of God the happiness that they deserved from Him. Perhaps, even it was a happiness refined of the suffering through which they both had passed; for, to know great happiness one must have known great sorrow.
Upon the Altar of Things are made, oft-times, strange sacrifices— sacrifices that we cannot understand, made in a way that we do not comprehend. For God has shown us, even the wisest of us, but little of the world in which we live.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's A Fool There Was, by Porter Emerson Browne