What? Of course; I will go at once, but how did you know?"

"Wait a minute, Isaacs; she is not well at all--in fact, she is quite
ill."

"What's the matter--for God's sake--Why, Griggs, man, how white you
are--O my God, my God--she is dead!" I seized him quickly in my arms or
he would have thrown himself on the ground.

"No," I said, "she is not dead. But, my dear boy, she is dying. I do not
believe she will live till this evening. Therefore get to horse and ride
there quickly, before it is too late."

Isaacs was a brave man, and of surpassing strength to endure. After the
first passionate outburst, his manner never changed as he mechanically
ordered his horse and pulled on his boots. He was pale naturally, and
great purple rings seemed to come out beneath his eyes--as if he had
received a blow--from the intensity of his suppressed emotion. Once only
he spoke before he mounted.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Jungle fever," I answered. He groaned. "Shall I go with you?" asked I,
thinking it might be as well. He shook his head, and was off in a
moment.

I turned to my rooms and threw myself on my bed. Poor fellow; was there
ever a more piteous case? Oh the cruel misery of feeling that nothing
could save her! And he--he who would give life and wealth and fortune
and power to give her back a shade of colour--as much as would tinge a
rose-leaf, even a very little rose-leaf--and could not. Poor fellow!
What would he do to-night--to-morrow. I could see him kneeling by her
side and weeping hot tears over the wasted hands. I could almost hear
his smothered sob--his last words of speeding to the parting soul--the
picture grew intensely in my thoughts. How beautiful she would look when
she was dead!

I started as the thought came into my mind. How superficial was my
acquaintance with her, poor girl,--how little was she a part of my life,
since I could really so heartlessly think of her beauty when her breath
should be gone! Of course, though, it was natural enough, why should I
feel any personal pang for her? It was odd that I should even expect
to--I, who never felt a "personal pang" of regret for the death of any
human creature, excepting poor dear old Lucia, who brought me up, and
sent me to school, and gave me roast chestnuts when I knew my lessons,
in the streets of Rome, thirty years ago. When she died, I was there;
poor old soul, how fond she was of me! And I of her! I remember the
tears I shed, though I was a bearded