you--you fed my vanity, never insisted upon yourself."

"But we have had happiness. And no one, no one, no one will ever be to you
what I have been."

"I love you." Howard's voice had a passionate earnestness in it that
carried conviction. "The light goes out with you."

"With this little candle? No, no, dear--_my_ dear. You will be a great
man. You will not forget; but you will go on and do the things that I'm
afraid I didn't help, maybe hindered, you in trying to do. And you will
keep a little room in your heart, a very little room. And I shall be in
there. And you'll open the door every once in a while and come in and take
me in your arms and kiss me. And I think--yes, I feel that--that I shall
know and thrill."

Her voice sank lower and lower and then her eyes closed, and presently he
called the nurse.

The next day he rose from his bed, just at the connecting door between his
room and hers, and looked in at her. The shades were drawn and only a faint
light crept into the room. He thought he saw her stir and went nearer.

"Why, they've made you very gay this morning," he laughed, "with the red
ribbons at your neck."

There was no answer. He came still nearer. The red ribbons were long
streamers of blood. She was dead.