he must not think of that! She would live; she still had
before her many years of happy existence.

She smiled as if she pitied him. She could not be deceived; her eyes
penetrated farther than his; she divined the impalpable, the invisible
that hovered about her. She spoke weakly but with that inexplicable
solemnity that is characteristic of a voice that emits its last sounds,
of a soul that unbosoms itself for the last time.

"I shall die, Mariano, sooner than you think, later than I desire. I
shall die and you will be free."

He! He desire her death! His surprise and remorse made him jump to his
feet, wave his arms in angry protest, writhe, as if a pair of invisible
hands had just laid him bare with a rude wrench.

"Josephina, don't rave. Calm yourself. For God's sake don't talk such
nonsense!"

She smiled with a painful, horrible expression, but immediately her poor
face became beautiful with the serenity of one who is departing this
life without hallucinations or delirium, in perfect mental poise. She
spoke to him with the immense sympathy, the superhuman compassion of one
who contemplates the wretched stream of life, departing from its
current, already touching with her feet the shores of eternal shadow, of
eternal peace.

"I should not want to go away without telling you. I die knowing
everything. Do not move; do not protest. You know the power I have over
you. More than once I have seen you watching me in terror, so easily do
I read your thoughts. For years I have been convinced that all was over
between us. We have lived like good creatures of God--eating together,
sleeping together, helping each other in our needs. But I peered within
you; I looked at your heart. Nothing! Not a memory, not a spark of love.
I have been your woman, the good companion who cares for the house, and
relieves a man of the petty cares of life. You have worked hard to
surround me with comforts, in order that I might be contented and not
disturb you. But Love? Never. Many people live as we have--many of them;
almost all. I could not; I thought that life was something different and
I am not sorry to go away. Don't go into a rage; don't shout. You aren't
to blame, poor Mariano--It was a mistake for us to marry."

She excused him gently with a kindness that seemed not of this world,
generously passing over the cruelty and selfishness of a life she was
about to leave. Men like him were exceptional; they ought to live alone,
by themse