call for our regard. We leave the lovers in their bridal bower, and
pensively approach the chamber of sickness and of death.

It is ten years since Mildred wedded. He is on the verge of sixty, and
seems more aged, for he is bowed down with bodily disease and pain. His
wife, not thirty yet, looks not an hour older than when we saw her last,
dressed like a queen for her espousal. She is more beautiful, as the full
developed rose in grace surpasses the delicate and still expanding bud;
but there she is, the same young Margaret. How they have passed the
married decade, how both fulfilled their several duties, may be gathered
from a description of Mildred's latest moments. He lies almost exhausted
on his bed of suffering, and only at short intervals can find strength to
make his wishes known to one who, since he was a boy, has been a faithful
and a constant friend. He is his comforter and physician now.

"You have not told me, Wilford," said Mildred in a moment of physical
repose, "you have not told me yet how long. Let me, I implore you, hear
the truth. I am not afraid to die. Is there any hope at all?"

The physician's lip quivered with affectionate grief; but did not move in
answer.

"There is _no_ hope then," continued the wasting invalid. "I believe it--I
believe it. But tell me, dearest friend, how long may this endure?"

"I cannot say," replied the doctor; "a day or two, perhaps: I fear not
longer, Mildred."

"Fear _not_, old friend," said Mildred. "I do not fear. I thank my God
there is an end of it."