or take an overdose of
some sleeping draft, and so to be out of his misery once and for all.

"I was unnerved, and begged him to keep up hope and courage--not to
think about the money, but to let us lend it. My beloved one left
everything to me; and I was sure, if he were alive, he would wish me to
make that offer to a brother soldier. I felt, even while I was
speaking, that if _I_ were in my cousin's place, I should refuse the
operation because I'd rather die than live on as a helpless invalid, a
burden to myself and others. But it wouldn't have been _human_ not to
encourage that poor sufferer to endure existence, if he could. So I
tried my best, and I was very excited and worked up by the sight of his
emotion. Suddenly he spoke again. He said that without an incentive to
live, he wouldn't trouble about the operation, and the only incentive
he could possibly have would be my marrying him, before he went under
the anesthetic. Besides, he couldn't accept money from me, when he saw
no way of repaying it, unless I were his wife. I would rather he had
killed me than force me to make such a decision as that!

"Perhaps if I'd been calmer, I might have dared to refuse, realizing
that his love of life was very strong indeed, and that when he had
thought things over, he would surely consent to the operation without
the horrible sacrifice he asked of me. But I was at the point of
breaking down, myself. I couldn't see anything clearly. It seemed to me
that I had to save a life, if it could be saved, at any cost. And then,
my future mattered so little to me then. The thought in my mind at the
time was, that to be the nurse of a broken soldier who'd given himself
for his country, was at least a mission in life. As it was, I had none
left. Also, it may be that deep down under my conscious thought was
another: that according to the surgeon's expert opinion, my cousin was
most unlikely to live. Why not give him the incentive he asked for, to
face the ordeal, and let him die happy--since that one thing seemed to
mean happiness for him? Almost before I knew what I was doing, I
promised. Then it was sprung upon me the next day, that if the
operation were to be done at all, it must be done soon. I had to keep
my word. And what followed was a nightmare: a second wedding by special
license, a bedside marriage with a dying man, words of farewell, and
the surgeon and anesthetist arriving in their white robes--like
undertakers.

"When I hear