‘“Are you in want, Monsieur? Can I give you—”
‘“No, no. I merely want you to do a trifling thing or two that I have not strength enough to do myself. Nobody in the town but you knows who I really am—unless you have told?”
‘“I have not told . . . I thought you might have acted from principle in those sad days, even—”
‘“You are kind to concede that much. However, to the present. I was able to destroy my few papers before I became so weak . . . But in the drawer there you will find some pieces of linen clothing—only two or three—marked with initials that may be recognized. Will you rip them out with a penknife?”
‘She searched as bidden, found the garments, cut out the stitches of the lettering, and replaced the linen as before. A promise to post, in the event of his death, a letter he put in her hand, completed all that he required of her.
‘He thanked her. “I think you seem sorry for me,” he murmured. “And I am surprised. You are sorry?”
‘She evaded the question. “Do you repent and believe?” she asked.
‘”No.”
‘Contrary to her expectations and his own he recovered, though very slowly; and her manner grew more distant thenceforward, though his influence upon her was deeper than she knew. Weeks passed away, and the month of May arrived. One day at this time she met him walking slowly along the beach to the northward.
‘“You know the news?” he said.