rigitte," Theo told her as he met her on the
stairs, "and the doctor is troubled about him. He says--the shock has
been almost too great for--for his mind. I--I knew he loved her--oh,
_petite mere cherie_--but I never knew how much. Ah, my dear, they had
grown together in the twenty-six years they were man and wife, and now
she has left him----" The young man put his arm on the balustrade and wept
quite simply and unrestrainedly.

Joyselle, who was sitting by his wife, looked up when Brigit entered
with the roses, but he did not speak.

"I have brought these--for _her_--Beau-papa," the girl faltered, and he
rose.

"Thank you. Yes, she loved roses--ma Felicite."

Brigit noticed, with a thrill of horror, remembering what the doctor had
said, that he spoke not quite distinctly; his tongue was a little thick.

"Let us," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder, "thank God that
she died so happily, with you by her side."

He passed his hand over his forehead where the halo of hair lay so
untidy.

"Yes. Let us thank God. You see, _ma fille_--I have not been a good man.
I have loved many women--or thought I did. I have betrayed her love for
me; I have--_enfin_, I have not been good. But--it all meant nothing.
She was the bride of my youth, the companion of my--of my young
manhood." He stammered again, and went on with the slight difficulty she
had noticed before, "and--I know now that after all, and in spite of
all, I have loved only her. _Felicite, ma vieille, tu m'entends?_"

He laid the roses on the pillow near her little peaceful face, and then
sat down again.

"My wife is--dead," he added.

THE END.

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