be true,--if, when bereft of me, he seeks you out, as be
sure he will,--deal gently with him for his father's sake.

"There was an old compact between us, dear. I mention it now
only in the hope that you may not have forgotten--indeed,
in the certainty that you have not. I know you so well.
Remember it, I beg of you, only to ignore it. It was made,
you know, when one of us expected to watch the passing of
the other. This is different. If this reminds you of it, it
reminds you only to warn you that Time cancels all such
compacts. It is my voice that assures you of it.

"FELIX R."

Underneath, written in letters, like, yet so unlike, were the words,
"My father died this morning. F. R." and an uncertain mark as though
he had begun to add "Jr." to the signature, and realized that there
was no need.

The letter fell from her hands.

For a long time she sat silent.

Dead! She had never felt that he could die while she lived. A
knowledge that he was living,--loving her, adoring her hopelessly--was
necessary to her life. She felt that she could not go on without it.
For eighteen years she had compared all other men, all other emotions
to him and his love, to find them all wanting.

And he had died.