She drew two chairs to the fire, and set a low table between them. She spread the spotless table-cover with a feast—the best the little cabin could afford—and her eyes shone all the time in her sad, worn face with the happiness of the blest.
She thought of his warm hand-clasp; of his bright gaze; his beautiful, proud head; his strong limbs and their joy of living; the hot blood that pulsed so red in his cheek. She forgot that he was now so cold. Then she remembered that he was dead. Would she fear his spirit—the ghost of her lover? She laughed at the thought. To see him again! to see him again! Oh, the longing of the past year! the passionate, hopeless, maddening longing to see him again—only once more!
"Pulse of my heart," she whispered, "hurry and come!"
She knelt by the fire and cleared the white dust from each bar. She dusted the stove and polished it till she could see her face in the shine. She rose and drew the chairs closer together, and then stood on tip-toe to see herself in the glass above the fire. She brushed the thick hair from off her forehead,
