gion I have, and
you mustn't ever say a word against it.

"Well, there is but little more to tell. Tilly spoke in quiet, broken
sentences as her cough permitted, and I told her a little about myself
and sang to her some hymns that mother sang to me when I was a child.
With the dawn her mother came in, and was frightened at having slept
so long, but Tilly laughed and said it was just splendid.

"She was evidently a very intelligent girl, and must have been a
pretty one, too. She certainly has read a great deal, and has taught
in public schools. There didn't seem to be a trace of morbidness
in her mind or feeling. She was simply trying to make the best of
everything, and her best certainly is _the_ best. She has helped and
comforted me more than I could her."

"Comforted you, Madge?"

"Oh, well," was the somewhat confused reply. "I've had trouble, and
shall have again. Who is without it long in this world?"

"It's almost hard to see how serious trouble can reach you hereafter,
you are so strong, so fortified. No, Madge; I'll never say a word
against your faith or that of your new friend. Would to Heaven I had
it myself! I wouldn't have missed this talk with you for the world,
and you can't know how I appreciate the friendship which has led
you to speak to me frankly of what is so sacred. All the whirl and
pressure of coming life and business shall never blot from my memory
the words you have spoken this morning or the scenes you have made so
real."

If this were true, how infinitely deeper would have been his
impression if he could have seen the beautiful girl, now smiling into
his eyes, bowed in agony at that sick-bed, while she acknowledged with
stifled sobs that the dying girl _was_ better off--far happier than
she who had to face almost the certainty of lifelong disappointment.
Poor Madge had not told Graydon all her story. She would have died
rather than have her secret known on earth, but she had not feared to
breathe it to one on the threshold of heaven.

CHAPTER XXVIII

DISPASSIONATE LOVERS

During the last moments of their drive Madge and Graydon were
comparatively silent. They were passing dwellings, meeting strangers,
and they could not, with the readiness of natures less finely
organized, descend to commonplaces. Each had abundant food for
thought, while even Graydon now believed that he so truly understood
Madge, and had so much in common with her, that words were no longer
needed for com