to bear it by thinking of what
Sally was like in those days, crumpled, violent, vociferous,
altogether _intransigeante_. But it was only a moment's salve to a
reeling of the reason she knew must come if this went on. If he slept
it might be averted. She thought he was dropping off, but he roused
himself again to say: "What became of poor Palliser--your husband?"

Then Rosalind, whose head was swimming, let the fact slip from her
that the dying man had never seen or known her husband in the old
days; only he had always spoken of him as one to be pitied, not
blamed, even as she herself thought of him. Incautiously she now said,
"Poor Gerry!" forgetting that Colonel Lund had never known him by that
name, or so slightly that it did not connect itself. Yet his mind was
marvellously clear, too; for he immediately replied: "I did not mean
Fenwick. I meant your first husband. Poor boy! poor fellow! What
became of him?"

"_His_ name was Algernon, too," was all the answer she could think of.
It was a sort of forlorn hope in nettle-grasping. Then she saw it had
little meaning in it for her listener. His voice went on, almost
whispering:

"Many a time I've thought ... if we could have found the poor boy ...
and shown him Sally ... he might have ... might have...."

Rosalind could bear it no longer. Whoever reads this story carelessly
may see little excuse for her that she should lose her head at the
bedside of a dying man. It was really no matter for surprise that she
should do so. Consider the perpetual tension of her life, the broken
insufficient sleep of the last two days, the shock of "Old Jack's"
sudden death a few hours since! Small blame to her, to our thinking,
if she did give way! To some it may even seem, as to us, that the
course she took was best in the end. And, indeed, her self-control
stood by her to the last; it was a retreat in perfect order, not a
flight. Nor did she, perhaps, fully measure how near her old friend
was to his end, or release--a better name, perhaps.

"Major dear, I have something I must tell you." The old eyelids opened,
and his eyes turned to her, though he remained motionless--quite as
one who caught the appeal in the tension of her voice and guessed its
meaning.

"Rosey darling--yes; tell me now." His voice tried to rise above
a whisper; an effort seemed to be in it to say: "Don't keep anything
back on my account."

"So I will, dear. Shut your eyes and lie quiet and listen. I want to