THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 505 spoke slowly, with, painful breaks and long pauses; his voice seemed to come from a distance. When he ceased, he lay with his face turned to Isabel, and his large unwinking eyes open into her own. " It was very good of you to come," he went on. " I thought you would ; but I wasn't sure." " I was not sure either, till I came," said Isabel. " You have been like an angel -beside my bed. You know they talk about the angel of death. It's the most beautiful of all. You have been like that ; as if you were waiting for me." " I was not waiting for your death ; I was waiting for for this. This is not death, dear Ralph." " Noi for you no. There is nothing makes us feel so much alive as to see others die. That's the sensation of life the sense that we remain. I have had it even I. But now I am of no use but to give it to others. With me it's all over." And then he paused. Isabel bowed her head further, till it rested on the two hands that were clasped upon his own. She could not see him now; but his far-away voice was close to her ear. " Isabel," he went on, suddenly, " I wish it were over for you." She answered nothing ; she had burst into sobs ; she remained so, with her buried face. He lay silent, listening to her sobs ; at last he gave a long groan. " Ah, what is it you have done forme?" " What is it you did for me 1 " she cried, her now extreme agitation half smothered by her attitude. She had lost all her shame, all wish to hide things. Now he might know; she wished him to know, for it brought them supremely together, and he was beyond the reach of pain. " You did something once you know it. Oh Ralph, you have been everything ! What have I done for you what can I do to-day ? I would die if you could live. But I don't wish you to live ; I would die myself, not to lose you." Her voice was as broken as his own, and full of tears and anguish. " You won't lose me you will keep me. Keep me in your heart ; I shall be nearer to you than I have ever been. Dear Isabel, life is better ; for in life there is love. Death is good but there is no love." " I never thanked you I never spoke I never was what I should be ! " Isabel went on. She felt a passionate need to cry out and accuse herself, to let her sorrow possess her. All her troubles, for the moment, became single and melted together into this present pain. " What must you have thought of me ? Yet how could I know 1 I never knew, and I only know to-day because there are people less stupid than I."
