hey
looked into mine as if they could read my inmost soul.

"My daughter," he said, "I bade you leave even your duty in my keeping.
Now I summon you to fulfil it. Your duty lies yonder, by your husband's
side in his agony of death."

"I will go," I whispered, my lips scarcely moving to pronounce the
words, so stiff and cold they felt.

"Stay one moment," he said, pityingly. "You have been taught to judge
of your duty for yourself, not to leave it to a priest. I ought to let
you judge now. Your husband is dying, but he is conscious, and is asking
to see you. He does not believe us that death is near; he says none but
you will tell him the truth. You cannot go to him without running a
great risk. Your danger will be greater than ours, who have been with
him all the time. You see, madame, he does not understand me, and he
refuses to believe in Tardif. Yet you cannot save him; you can only
receive his last adieu. Think well, my child. Your life may be the
forfeit."

"I must go," I answered, more firmly; "I will go. He is my husband."

"Good!" he said, "you have chosen the better part. Come, then. The good
God will protect you."

He drew my hand through his arm, and led me to the low doorway. The
inner room was very dark with the overhanging eaves, and my eyes,
dilated by the strong sunlight, could discern but little in the gloom.
Tardif was kneeling beside a low bed, bathing my husband's forehead. He
made way for me, and I felt him touch my hand with his lips as I took
his place. But no one spoke. Richard's face, sunken, haggard, dying,
with filmy eyes, dawned gradually out of the dim twilight, line after
line, until it lay sharp and distinct under my gaze. I could not turn
away from it for an instant, even to glance at Tardif or Monsieur
Laurentie. The poor, miserable face! the restless, dreary, dying eyes!

"Where is Olivia?" he muttered, in a hoarse and labored voice.

"I am here, Richard," I answered, falling on my knees where Tardif had
been kneeling, and putting my hand on his; "look at me. I am Olivia."

"You are mine, you know," he said, his fingers closing round my wrist
with a grasp as weak as a very young child's.--"She is my wife, Monsieur
le Cure."

"Yes," I sobbed, "I am your wife, Richard."

"Do they hear it?" he asked, in a whisper.

"We hear it," answered Tardif.

A strange, spasmodic smile flitted across his ghastly face, a look of
triumph and success. His fingers tightened over my hand, an