to die," she continued, passionately clasping her thin white
hands together.

"That is an unusual wish in one so young," answered the physician, "but
to be plain with you, Mrs. Livingstone, I think consumption too deeply
seated to admit of your recovery. You may be better, but never well.
Your disease is hereditary, and has been coming on too long."

"It is well," was Mabel's only answer, as she turned wearily upon her
side and hid her face in the pillows.

For a long time she lay there, thinking, weeping, and thinking again,
of the noisome grave through which she must pass, and from which she
instinctively shrank, it was so dark, so cold, and dreary. But Mabel
had trusted in One who she knew would go with her down into the lone
valley--whose arm she felt would uphold her as she crossed the dark,
rolling stream of death; and as if her frail bark were already safely
moored upon the shores of the eternal river, she looked back dreamily
upon the world she had left, and as she saw what she felt would surely
be, she again murmured through her tears, "It is well."

That night, when John Jr. came up to his room, he appeared somewhat
moody and cross, barely speaking to Mabel, and then walking up and down
the room with the heavy tread which always indicated a storm within.
He had that day been to Frankfort, hearing that Nellie was really
coming home very soon--very possibly she was now on her way. Of course
she would visit Mabel, when she heard she was sick, and of course he
must meet her face to face, must stand with her at the bedside of _his
wife_ and that wife Mabel. In his heart he did not accuse the latter
of feigning her illness, but he wished she would get well faster, so
that Nellie need not feel obliged to visit her. She could at least
make an effort--a great deal depended upon that--and she had now been
confined to her room three or four weeks.

Thus he reflected as he walked, and at last his thoughts formed
themselves into words. Stopping short at the foot of the bed, he said
abruptly and without looking her in the face, "How do you feel tonight?"

The stifled cough which Mabel tried to suppress because it was
offensive to him, brought a scowl to his forehead, and in imagination
he anticipated her answer, "I do not think I am any better."

"And I don't believe you try to be," sprang to his lips, but its
utterance was prevented by a glance at her face, which by the
flickering lamplight looked whiter than