"She will think whatever I do; I shall feel as she does," he answered,
with dignity.

"Yes, I know," I urged. "It would not be for her; it would not certainly
be for yourself. But if you could see it as the only form of reparation
which her mother can now offer you both, and the only mode of expressing
your own forgiveness--Recollect how you felt when you thought that it
was Mrs. Bentley's death; try to recall something of that terrible
time--"

"I don't forget that," he relented. "It was in mercy to Edith and me
that our trial is what it is: we have recognized that in the face of
eternity. I can forgive anything in gratitude for that."

* * * * *

I have often had to criticise life for a certain caprice with which she
treats the elements of drama, and mars the finest conditions of tragedy
with a touch of farce. No one who witnessed the marriage of Arthur
Glendenning and Edith Bentley had any belief that she would survive it
twenty-four hours; they themselves were wholly without hope in the
moment which for happier lovers is all hope. To me it was like a
funeral, but then most weddings are rather ghastly to look upon; and the
stroke that life had in reserve perhaps finally restored the lost
balance of gayety in this. At any rate, Mrs. Glendenning did live, and
she is living yet, and in rather more happiness than comes to most
people under brighter auspices. After long contention among many
doctors, the original opinion that her heart trouble was functional, not
organic, has been elected final, and upon these terms she bids fair to
live as long as any of us.