It is ten years since Mildred wedded. He is on the verge of sixty, and seems more aged, for he is bowed down with bodily disease and pain. His wife, not thirty yet, looks not an hour older than when we saw her last, dressed like a queen for her espousal. She is more beautiful, as the full developed rose in grace surpasses the delicate and still expanding bud; but there she is, the same young Margaret. How they have passed the married decade, how both fulfilled their several duties, may be gathered from a description of Mildred's latest moments. He lies almost exhausted on his bed of suffering, and only at short intervals can find strength to make his wishes known to one who, since he was a boy, has been a faithful and a constant friend. He is his comforter and physician now.
"You have not told me, Wilford," said Mildred in a moment of physical repose, "you have not told me yet how long. Let me, I implore you, hear the truth. I am not afraid to die. Is there any hope at all?"
The physician's lip quivered with affectionate grief; but did not move in answer.
"There is no hope then," continued the wasting invalid. "I believe it—I believe it. But tell me, dearest friend, how long may this endure?"
"I cannot say," replied the doctor; "a day or two, perhaps: I fear not longer, Mildred."
"Fear not, old friend," said Mildred. "I do not fear. I thank my God there is an end of it."
"Is your mind happy, Mildred?" asked the physician.
"You shall judge yourself. I die at peace with all men. I repent me heartily of my sins. I place my hope in my Redeemer. I feel that he will not desert me. I did never fear death, Wilford. I can smile upon him now."
"You will see a clergyman?"
"Yes, Wilford, an hour hence; not now. I have sent her away, that I might hear the worst from you. She must be recalled, and know that all is fixed, and over. We will pray together—dear, faithful Margaret—sweet, patient nurse! Heaven bless her!"