together, and he walked with his arm round my waist. We were children,
but I thought we were married, and I showed him I wore his ring, and he
said--if you always wear it, Clare, you are as good as my wife. Then I
made a vow to wear it for ever and ever... "It is not mama's fault. She
does not think as Richard and I do of these things. He is not a coward,
nor am I. He hates cowards.

"I have written to his father to make him happy. Perhaps when I am dead
he will hear what I say.

"I heard just now Richard call distinctly--Clare, come out to me. Surely
he has not gone. I am going I know not where. I cannot think. I am
very cold."

The words were written larger, and staggered towards the close, as if her
hand had lost mastery over the pen.

"I can only remember Richard now a boy. A little boy and a big boy. I
am not sure now of his voice. I can only remember certain words.
'Clari,' and 'Don Ricardo,' and his laugh. He used to be full of fun.
Once we laughed all day together tumbling in the hay. Then he had a
friend, and began to write poetry, and be proud. If I had married a
young man he would have forgiven me, but I should not have been happier.
I must have died. God never looks on me.

"It is past two o'clock. The sheep are bleating outside. It must be
very cold in the ground. Good-bye, Richard."

With his name it began and ended. Even to herself Clare was not over-
communicative. The book was slender, yet her nineteen years of existence