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and his gaze went deep into her eyes. Suddenly he was seized with despair.

“This woman loves me,” he said to himself. “This woman loves me, and I have never known it. I cannot know this kind of love. Her eyes—her eyes—this is something far beyond my comprehension. Can she have loved me always?” He looked again. “She is very near to God. I think women are nearer to God than men. They cannot talk about it, but, Christ! how it shines in their eyes. And she loves me. During all her hectoring and badgering and brow-beating, she has loved me—and I have never known it. But what would I have done if I had known it?” He turned away. This sorrow was too great, too burning and awful to regard. It is terrifying to see a woman's soul shining through her eyes.

So he was to die. It was rather pleasant if death was like this. He was warm and very tired. Presently he would fall asleep, and that would be death—Brother Death.

He knew that some other person had come into the room. His wife leaned over until she came within his upstaring vision. She would be annoyed if she knew he could turn his head if he wished.

“The Vicar, dear,” his wife said. “Do be nice to him. Oh, do listen to him! It may help you—afterwards.” Ah, she was practical! She was going to see that some compact was made with the Almighty if she could. Her affection was an efficient thing, but her love—that which glittered in her wet eyes—was frightful.