eaven to witness that I was ready not only to die for him, if
need be, but to do a better, nobler thing, God helping me--to live for
him; eschewing other ties, to devote my life and heart to this one
affection. We had wealth, thank God! (I never thanked God for that
before.) We would go to far-off lands as soon as he was able--away from
old sights and scenes, where no familiar object would recall the past,
and where, cut off from all association, we could be all and all to each
other; and, with ardent hope, I commenced immediate preparations for our
voyage. I read him books of travel; showed him the half-finished
garments intended for our journey; purchased all things needful, even to
the books we would read upon the way--richly paid for toilsome endeavor,
for days of patient waiting, if I but roused in him even a passing
interest in the subject, won from him but the shadow of a smile. Ah!
even those days had their gleams of sunshine. I was his only nurse, his
sole dependence, his all; there was exquisite happiness in that! I said
to myself, he is mine now, and always will be; and then I thought of the
fair face so lovingly resting against the weary heart, and grew
exultant, Heaven forgive me! and said, 'Nothing will take him from me
now.' One day he rallied very suddenly. A portion of his old vigor
seemed to animate his frame; something of the old look was in his face.
He took my hand and laid it tenderly against his cheek; he smiled twice
during the morning; I kissed him and said, 'We shall be able to start
soon now, my darling!' The doctor gravely watched us both, but I would
not let his gravity disturb me. He called me to him as he left the room.
As I went out, the dear brown eyes were watching me. I turned to nod and
smile to him, saying blithely, as I joined the doctor, 'Don't you think
we shall be able to start in three weeks, doctor?' 'Shut the door, my
dear,' he said; I had left it ajar. The tone startled me. There was
compassion in it; and I noticed now that he was walking up and down the
room in an agitated way. 'My dear,' he said again, 'you had better take
a seat farther from the door.' His voice was hoarse this time--his tone,
his air, his unwonted tenderness, were ominous. 'What is the matter?' I
said, in sudden fear; 'can't we go as soon as we have intended?'

He did not answer me at first; he walked to the window and looked out;
he turned to me again after a little:

'He is bound on a longer voyage,' he