Annette Gerald took the pen from her husband's hand. “My poor Lawrence!” she said, “you and I have got to be saints now. There is no medium for us. Pleasure, ease, all hope of earthly peace—they are far behind us. We must go out into the world and do penance, and wait for death.”
“Annette,” he exclaimed, “let me go alone! Give me up now, and live your own life here. I will never come near you again.”
She shook her head. “That is impossible. The only consolation I can have is to stay with you and give you what little help I can. You could not live without me, Lawrence. Don't speak of it. I shall stand by you.”
She opened the shutters and the window, and let the fresh morning light into the close room and over their feverish faces.
The town was waking up to a bright sunshiny day, its many smokes curling upward into the blue, its beautiful vesture of snow still clinging here and there, all its busy life beginning to stir joyfully again. They stood before the window a minute looking out, the same thought in both their minds. Then the wife leaned forward. “Good-by, Crichton!” she said, and took her husband's hand. “Come, Lawrence! we have no time to lose. The sword has been set over the gate.”
To Be Continued.
A Looker-Back. III. The Temple.
“Those bricky towers,