Mrs. Anson, and again insisted that he should go. He left her, and at
last, broken-hearted, found his way, in illness and poverty to the
hospital, where, toward the last, he was cared for by a noble girl,
a companion of his boyhood and his better days, who urged his wife to
visit him. She left him alone, said unpleasant things to the girl, did
not come to see her husband when he was dead, and provided nothing for
his burial. You see that, like you, she hated suffering and misery--and
criminals. The girl and her mother paid the expenses of the funeral,
and, with myself, were the only mourners. I am doubtful if the wife
knows even where he lies. I admit that the story sounds melodramatic;
but truth is more drama than comedy, I fancy. Now, what do you think of
it all, Mrs. Falchion?"

I had felt her shrink a little at the earlier part of my story, as if
she feared that her own tale was to be brutally bared before her; but
that soon passed, and she languidly tapped the chair-arm as the narrative
continued. When it was finished, she leaned over slightly, and with
these same fingers tapped my arm. I thrilled involuntarily.

"He died, did he?" she said. "That was the most graceful thing he could
do. So far as my knowledge of the world is concerned, men of his class
do NOT die. They live, and they never rise above their degradation.
They had not brains or courage enough to keep them out of gaol, and they
have not pluck or brains enough to succeed--afterwards. Your friend
Anson was quite gentlemanly in his action at the last. He had some sense
of the fitness of things. He could not find a place in the world without
making other people uncomfortable, and causing trouble. If he had lived,
he would always have added to the blight on his wife's career, and have
been an arrow--not a thorn--in her side. Very likely he would have
created a scandal for the good young girl who nursed him. He made the