bringing him where we now see him; for fate is often
cruel enough to strike you through your dearest and best. The sick youth
opens his weary eyes to see that he is not dreaming. Cecile is really
there; she implores his pardon, and explains why she gave him such pain.
Ah, if she had but known that their destinies were so similar!

As she spoke, a great calm came to Jack, following all the bitterness
and anger of the past weeks.

"Then you love me?" he whispered.

"Yes, Jack; I have always loved you."

Whispered in this alcove, that had heard so many dying groans, this word
love had a most extraordinary sweetness, as if some wandering bird had
taken refuge there.

"How good you are to come, Cecile! Now I shall not utter another murmur.
I am ready to die, with you at my side."

"Die! Who is talking of dying?" said the old doctor in his heartiest
voice. "Have no fear, my boy, we will pull you through. You do not look
like the same person you were when we came."

This was true enough. He was transfigured with happiness. He pressed
Cecile's hand to his cheek, and whispered an occasional word of
tenderness.

"All that was lacking to me in life, you have given me, dear. You have
been friend and sister, wife and mother."

But his excitement soon gave place to exhaustion, his feverish color
to frightful pallor. The ravages made by disease were only too plainly
visible. Cecile looked at her grandfather in fright; the room was full
of shadows, and it seemed to her that she recognized a Presence more
sombre, more mysterious than Night.

Suddenly Jack half lifted himself: "I hear her," he whispered; "she is
coming!"

But the watchers at his side heard only the wintry wind in the
corridors, the steps of the retreating crowd in the court below, and
the distant noises in the street. He listened a moment, said a few
unintelligible words, then his head fell back and his eyes closed.
But he was right. Two women were running up the stairs. They had been
allowed to enter, though the hour for the admittance of visitors had
long since passed. But it was one of those occasions where rules may be
broken and set aside.

When they arrived at the outer door, Charlotte stopped. "I cannot go
on," she said, "I am frightened."

"Come on," the other answered, roughly; "you must. Ah, to such women as
you, God should never give children!"

And she pushed Charlotte toward the staircase. The large room, the
shaded lamps, the kneeling fo