or little girl, my poor boy!" she said over and over to herself
from that time, but she did not cry or break down.

It was a pathetic sign of what was coming, that she now allowed Theophil
sometimes to be Jenny's nurse through the night hours. There was to be
no bridal bed for these lovers, but thus the tender quiet hours of the
night were theirs even in so sad a fashion.

One night, in the haunted hushed middle of it, the old mother had softly
pushed open the door to ask if all went well, and in a whisper Theophil
had assured her. A night-light gave an uncanny shadow-breeding light in
the room. Jenny was sleeping peacefully, her tired ivory face, with her
dark elf-locks falling about it, framed on the pillow. Theophil raised
himself softly in his chair and looked at her. She would sleep some
while yet. Then from sheer weariness--grief's best friend--he too fell
into a light sleep. From this he was awakened with a start. Jenny was
sitting up and bending over him. With her dark hair hanging about her
face, and in that light, there was something weird and unearthly about
her, as though she were already dead and had risen in her shroud.
Something of a shiver went through him, as she put her thin arms round
his neck and clutched him in a sudden agony of longing. All the strength
of her poor little body seemed to pass into that kiss, so eager, so
convulsive. "Jenny dear, it will make you so ill; lie down, little
girl"--and Jenny fell back on her pillow exhausted and coughing, and
with eyes unearthly bright.

"Theophil," she said suddenly, in that startling way sick people have,
"you know that I am going to die!"

He could not answer, his voice would have choked in sobs. He leaned his
head close to Jenny and pressed her hand, and in spite of himself two
great tears fell upon Jenny's cheek.

But Jenny was curiously calm. There was almost a note of scolding in her
voice, as she said, "It's no use crying, Theophil--it's got to
be borne."

She was already growing strangely wise, and a little removed from earth.
The first fears of her dark journey were passing, as she was more and
more sinking among the shadows. In moments there seemed to be something
almost trivial in earthly grief. But there was still one earthly joy,
one earthly pride, of which her soul began to conceive the desire. It
had come with the thought of her grave that one day took her, less with
fear, than of a new home to which she would presently be going. In