shadow-line, and tried to think of her as
another man's wife; this woman he loved, and who _had_ loved _him_.

He saw her stop beside a little mound, kneel down, and carefully
dividing her flowers, place the half of them upon a child's grave. Her
face was wet with tears when she arose, and crossing over to the tall,
yellow shaft, placed the remainder of the offering at its base. She
stood a moment, as if studying the odd inscription. And when she
turned away he saw that the tears were gone, and a hopeless patience
gave the sweet face a tender beauty.

"'Oh, Shiloh! Shiloh!'"

He heard her repeat the melancholy words as she moved away from the
old shaft, and opening the gate he waited until she should pass out.

"Donald!"

"I couldn't help it, Alice. You are going away to-morrow; it is the
last offence. You will forgive it because it _is_ the last."

"You ought not to follow me in this way, it isn't honorable. See! I
have been to put some flowers on my little baby's grave." She glanced
back, as she stood, her hand upon the gate, at the little
flower-bedecked grave where two months before she had buried her only
child.

"You shared your treasures with the other," he said, indicating the
tall shaft.

"I always do," said she. "There is something about that grave that
touches me with singular pity. I feel as if it were _myself_ who is
buried there. I think the girl must have died of a broken heart."

"Have you never heard the story?" said Donald. "I suppose it might be
called a broken heart, although the doctors gave it the more agreeable
title of '_heart disease_.' It is very well for the world that doctors
do not call things by their right name always. Now, if I should be
found dead to-morrow morning in my little room at Dan, the doctors
would pronounce me a victim of 'apoplexy,' or 'heart failure.' That
would be very generous of the doctors so far as _I_ am concerned. But
would it not be more generous to struggling humanity to say the truth:
'This man died of _delirium tremens_,--killed himself with whiskey.
Now you other sots take warning.'"

"Donald Rives!" the sad eyes, full of unspoken pity, not unmixed with
regret, sought his.

"Truth," said Donald. "And truth, Alice, is always best. The world,
the sick moral world, cannot be healed with falsehood. But the woman
sleeping there--she has a pretty story. Will you wait while I tell
it--you are going away to-morrow."

She glanced down the road, dim with t