threw a light on what he should do with a situation of this sort. He
was keenly uncomfortable; he wished the rector had stayed at home. At
all events, silence was safe, so he was silent with all his might.

"When the doctors told me about my malady a month ago, the one light in
the blackness was that now I might break my engagement, and I hurried
to do it. But he wouldn't. He--" A sound came, half laugh, half sob.
"He's certainly faithful. But--I've got a lot of money. It's
frightful," she burst forth. "It's the crowning touch, to doubt even
his sincerity. And I may be wrong--he may care for me. He says so. I
think my heart has ossified first, and is finished, for it is quite
cold when he says so. I _can't_ marry him! So I might as well kill
myself," she concluded, in a casual tone, like a splash of cold water
on the hot intensity of the sentences before. And the man, listening,
realized that now he must say something. But what to say? His mind
seemed blank, or at best a muddle of protest. And the light-hearted
voice spoke again. "I think I'll do it to-night, unless you tell me
I'd certainly go to hell forever."

Then the protest was no longer muddled, but defined. "You mustn't do
that," he said, with authority. "Suppose a man is riding a runaway
horse and he loses his nerve and throws himself off and is killed--is
that as good a way as if he sat tight and fought hard until the horse
ran into a wall and killed him? I think not. And besides, any second,
his pull on the reins may tell, and the horse may slow down, and his
life may be saved. It's better riding and it's better living not to
give in till you're thrown. Your case looks hopeless to you, but
doctors have been wrong plenty of times; diseases take unexpected
turns; you may get well."