came
and made his examination, he told them plainly that "no effort could
avail; it was a case of sudden heart failure, and the end was but a
question of moments."

Mr. Goddard was horrified and stricken with remorse at the hopeless
verdict, for it seemed to him that he was in a measure accountable for
the untimely shock which was fast depriving of life this woman who
had loved him so passionately, though unwisely.

He put his lips to her ear and called her by name.

"Anna! Anna! You must try to arouse yourself," he cried, in a voice of
agony.

At first the appeal seemed to produce no effect, but after several
attempts he thought he detected a gleam of intelligence in the almost
sightless eyes, while the cold fingers resting on his hand made an
effort to close over his.

These slight signs convinced him that though she was past the power of
speech, she yet knew him and clung to him, in spite of the clutch
which the relentless enemy of all mankind had laid upon her.

"Doctor, she knows me!" he exclaimed. "Pray give her some stimulant to
arouse her dormant faculties, if only for a moment."

"I fear it will be of no use," the physician replied, "but I will
try."

He hurriedly prepared and administered a powerful restorative; then
they waited with breathless interest for several moments for some sign
of improvement.

It came at last; she began to breathe a trifle more regularly; the set
features became a little less rigid, and the pulse a shade stronger,
until finally the white lids were lifted and the dying woman turned
her eyes with a pitiful expression of appeal upon the man whom, even
in death, she still adored.

"Leave us alone!" commanded Gerald Goddard, in a hoarse whisper, and
physician and servants stole noiselessly from the room.

"Anna, you know me--you understand what I am saying?" the wretched man
then questioned.

A slight pressure from the cold fingers was the only reply.

"You know that you are dying?" he pursued.

Again that faint sign of assent.

"Then, dear, let us be at peace before you go," he pleaded, gently.
"My soul bows in humiliation and remorse before you; for years I have
wronged you. I wronged you in those first days in Rome. I have no
excuse to offer. I simply tell you that my spirit is crushed within me
as I look back and realize all that I am accountable for. I would have
been glad to atone, as far as was in my power, could you have lived to
share my future. Give me some