ing heart. She wore a dressing-gown of some
white stuff; her black hair, released from the combs of the day, was
loosely rolled up, and curled round her neck and temples. She came in
with a gentle deliberate step; it was but a few hours since the ceremony
of the morning, but the tranformation in her was instinctive and
complete. To-night she was the wife--alone with her husband.

She saw that he was not asleep, and she went and knelt down beside him.

"Oliver, darling!"

He passed his hand over her hair.

"I have been waiting for you--it is our wedding night."

She hid her face against him.

"Oh! you angel!" he murmured to her--"angel of consolation! When I am
gone, say to yourself: 'I drew him out of the pit, and helped him to
die'; say 'he suffered, and I forgave him everything'; say 'he was my
husband, and I carried him on my heart--so.'" He moved toward her. She
put her arms under his head and drew him to her breast, stooping over
him and kissing him.

So the first part of the night went by, he very much under the influence
of morphia and not in pain; murmured words passing at intervals between
them, the outward signs of an inward and ineffable bond. Often, as she
sat motionless beside him, the thought of her mother stirred in her
heart--father, mother, husband--close, close all of them--"closer than
hands and feet"--one with her and one with God.

About two o'clock she gave him the new drug, he piteously consenting for
her sake. Then in a mortal terror she resumed her place beside him. In a
few minutes surely the pain, the leaping hungry pain would be upon him,
and she must see him wrestle with it defenceless. She sat holding her
breath, all existence gathered into fear.

But the minutes passed. She felt the tension of his hand relax. He went
to sleep so gently that in her infinite relief she too dropped into
sleep, her head beside his, the black hair mingling with the gray on the
same pillow.

The servant coming in, as he had been told, looked at them in
astonishment, and stole away again.

An hour or so later Oliver woke.

"I have had no morphia, and I am not in pain. My God! what does it
mean?"

Trembling, he put out his hand. Yes!--Diana was there--asleep in her
chair. His _wife_!

His touch roused her, and as she bent over him he saw her dimly in the
dim light--her black hair, her white dress.

"You can bring that old French fellow here whenever you like," he said,
holding her. Then, faintl