ng in their grey, sunken, sockets, searched
his face curiously.
"You've worn better than I have," she observed at last, breaking the
silence with a short laugh, "you must be--let me see--fifty. While I'm
barely thirty-one--and I look forty--and the rest."
Suddenly he reached out and gathered her thin, restless hands into his,
holding them in a kind, firm clasp.
"Oh, my dear!" he said sadly. "Is there nothing I can do?"
"Yes," she answered steadily. "There is. And it's to ask you if you will
do it that I sent for you. Do you suppose"--she swallowed, battling with
the tremor in her voice--"that I _wanted_ you to see me--as I am now?
It was months--months before I could bring myself to send you the little
pearl ring."
He stooped and kissed one of the hands he held.
"Dear, foolish woman! You would always be--just Pauline--to me."
Her eyes softened suddenly.
"So you never married, after all?"
He straightened his shoulders, meeting her glance squarely--almost
sternly.
"Did you imagine that I should?" he asked quietly.
"No, no, I suppose not." She looked away. "What a mess I made of things,
didn't I? However, it's all past now; the game's nearly over, thank
Heaven! Life, since that day"--the eyes of the man and woman met again
in swift understanding--"has been one long hell."
"He--the man you married--"
"Made that hell. I left him after six years of it, taking the child with
me."
"The child?" A curious expression came into his eyes, resentful, yet
tinged at the same time with an oddly tender interest. "Was there a
child?"
"Yes--I have a little daughter."
"And did your husband never trace you?" he asked, after a pause.
"He never tried to"--grimly. "Afterwards--well, it was downhill all the
way. I didn't know how to work, and by that time I had learned my health
was going. Since then, I've lived on the proceeds of the pawnshop--I
had my jewels, you know--and on the odd bits of money I could scrape
together by taking in sewing."
A groan burst from the man's dry lips.
"Oh, my God!" he cried. "Pauline, Pauline, it was cruel of you to keep
me in ignorance! I could at least have helped."
She shook her head.
"I couldn't take--_your_ money," she said quietly. "I was too proud
for that. But, dear friend"--as she saw him wince--"I'm not proud any
longer. I think Death very soon shows us how little--pride--matters; it
falls into its right perspective when one is nearing the end of things.
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