and I hurried away toward town.

"Don't worry, Mr. A.", called out the man after me, "Your wife's all
right," then in a lower tone to himself, "That fellow'll go daffy over
his little wife, as he calls her, if he isn't careful. It's a good thing
I haven't any, for I couldn't watch her like that if I did have, that's
certain."

I hurried on over the trail, the night being light and clear, the grass
dewy, and the sun about to rise; for it was midsummer in Alaska.

Afterwards I remembered these things.

When half way home I saw a horseman coming toward me. He was riding
rapidly, and when he drew near I recognized a neighbor. He reined in his
horse.

"Good morning, Mr. A.," said he.

"What is it, Peter, tell me quick! Has anything happened at home?" I
cried impatiently.

"Mr. A., I am sorry to tell you, but you're"--

"Don't say she is dead! Don't say that!" I begged.

"Mount my horse, and I'll follow. Go as fast as you can for the animal
is fresh," said he; but I heard nothing, saw nothing. I was simply
clinging to the saddle, as the animal galloped back over the trail.

In a dazed condition I reached home. Our cabin was filled with
sympathetic friends, trying to assist in some way. As I came in they
dispersed, leaving me alone with Olga.

They had placed her upon a couch where she lay with a sweet smile upon
her lips, but they were cold when I kissed them--her heart had ceased
to beat, and for the first time in all our lives there was no answering
pressure when I took her hands in mine.

Oh, the agony of that moment! No tongue can tell, no pen describe, the
awful loneliness of that hour. She had been part of my life--of me. I
could not live without her; I did not want to try.

Oh, God! How could I bear it? What should I do? I had given her my love,
my life, and now she was dead--everything was swept away and there was
absolutely nothing to live for. If I could only die! Dare I take my own
life? No, for that would then mean everlasting separation, as she was
doubtless now in the happiest state to which mortals could be assigned.
I must try to reach her no matter at what cost. For hours I knelt beside
her with her hands in mine, and my cheek beside her cold one.

I was again talking to Olga, as I fondled her face, her hair, her hands.

"Speak to me, my darling," I pleaded, "if only once more. I cannot live
without you. Why did you leave me? How could you go without telling me?
Surely you did not intend to