his voice came again--a faint whisper she could just catch:
"Tell it me again, Rosey ... what you told me just now ... just
now." And she felt his cold hand close on hers as he spoke. Then she
repeated what she had said before, adding only: "But he may never come
to know his own story, and Sally must not know it." The old whisper
came back, and she caught the words: "Then it is true! My God!"

She remained kneeling motionless beside him. His breath, weak and
intermittent, but seeming more free than when she left him four hours
since, was less audible than the heavy sleep of the overtaxed nurse
in the next room, heard through the unclosed door. The familiar early
noises of the street, the life outside that cares so little for the
death within, the daily bread and daily milk that wake us too soon in
the morning, the cynical interchanges of cheerful early risers about
the comfort of the weather--all grew and gathered towards the coming
day. But the old Colonel heard none of them. What thought he still had
could say to him that this was good and that was good, hard though it
might be to hold it in mind. But one bright golden thread ran clear
through all the tangled skeins--he would leave Rosey happy at last,
for all the bitterness her cup of life had held before.

* * * * *

The nurse had slept profoundly, but she was one of those fortunate
people who can do so at will, and then wake up at an appointed time,
as many great soldiers have been able to do. As the clock struck
eight she sat up in the chair she had been sleeping in and listened a
moment. No sound came from the next room. She rose and pushed the door
open cautiously and looked in. Mrs. Fenwick was still kneeling by the
bed, her face hidden, still holding the old man's hand. The nurse
thought surely the still white face she saw in the intermittent gleams
of a lamp-flame flickering out was the face of a dead man. Need she
rouse or disturb the watcher by his side? Not yet, certainly. She
pulled the door very gently back, not closing it.

A sound came of footsteps on the stairs--footsteps without voices. It
was Fenwick and Sally, who had passed through the street door, open for
a negotiation for removal of the snow--for the last two hours had made
a white world outside. Sally was on a stairflight in the rear. She had
paused for a word with the boy Chancellorship, who was a candidate for
snow-removal. He seemed relieved by the snow. I