arms, I was able to kiss him, to call upon him by every foolish name my heart prompted, and he was able to answer me, to put out his weak hand to me, to smile at me . . . only five hours ago' He cannot be dead: I must have dreamt it . . . If I open yonder shut door I shall find him there. Ay! but did I ever leave him for a minute while the breath was in his poor tortured little body? Oh, Wattie! . . . Wattie, five hours ago you were here, in my arms; but now, where are you?
All my life long I have had so keen a pity for dead folk, that it has seemed to me that in some former state I must have loved some one very passionately, who died; but this experience is so new, so strange, so awful, that I cannot grasp it. I pitied then; but did I ever see a human being speaking, smiling one minute, the next a blank, a mockery, a shell, from whence is withdrawn the beautiful loving spirit that I knew?
"Oh, God! oh, God!" I cry, as I rock myself to and fro, "make me understand, make me see it; remove this terrible interval that lies between my living Wattie and this dead one."
If only he could come back to me for one brief moment, if only he could tell me about it! . . . I cannot get hold of you, Wattie, my angel you are not dead, so I have no memory of you; you are not living, so I cannot speak to you. . . . . To-morrow, perhaps, you will seem farther away; I shall learn to remember.
I go to the window, and look out at the night. May he not be somewhere near me, though I do not know it? Can he have gone so far already? Were you afraid, Wattie, I wonder, when you went forth alone? Did you hold out your hand to me in the awful strangeness of your passing? Is any one taking care of you up there, as I took care of you here below?
"Wattie! Wattie!" I whisper, and my voice sounds hoarse and sinister in the silence, "can you not speak to me?" But no answer comes to me; not a leaf stirs, not a sound is abroad.
