for me a while--my poor soul will rest in
peace if you feel one moment of real regret for me, for your old husband,
before you take another. Do not cry, Corona, dearest; it is the way of
the world. We waste our youth in scoffing at reality, and in the
unrealness of our old age the present no longer avails us much. You know
me, perhaps you despise me. You would not have scorned me when I was
young--oh, how young I was! how strong and vain of my youth, thirty years
ago!"

"Indeed, indeed, no such thought ever crossed my mind. I give you all I
have," cried Corona, in great distress; "I will give you more--I will
devote my whole life to you--"

"You do, my dear. I am sensible of it," said Astrardente, quietly. "You
cannot do more, if you will; you cannot make me young again, nor take
away the bitterness of death--of a death that leaves you behind."

Corona leaned forward, staring into the dying embers of the fire, one
hand supporting her chin. The tears stood in her eyes and on her cheeks.
The old dandy in his genuine misery had excited her compassion.

"I would mourn you long," she said. "You may have wasted your life; you
say so. I would love you more if I could, God knows. You have always been
to me a courteous gentleman and a faithful husband."

The old man rose with difficulty from his deep chair, and came and stood
by her, and took the hand that lay idle on her knees. She looked up at
him.

"If I thought my blessing were worth anything, I would bless you for what
you say. But I would not have you waste your youth. Youth is that which,
being wasted, is like water poured out upon the ground. You must marry
again, and marry soon--do not start. You will inherit all my fortune; you
will have my title. It must descend to your children. It has come to an
unworthy end in me; it must be revived in you."

"How can you think of it? Are you ill?" asked Corona kindly, pressing
gently his thin hand in hers. "Why do you dwell on the idea of death
to-night?"

"I am ill; yes, past all cure, my dear," said the old man, gently raising
her hand to his lips, and kissing it.

"What do you mean?" asked Corona, suddenly rising to her feet and laying
her hand affectionately upon his shoulder. "Why have you never told me?"

"Why should I tell you--except that it is near, and you must be prepared?
Why should I burden you with anxiety? But you were so gentle and kind
to-night, upon the stairs," he said, with some hesitation, "that I