peace. It filled me with unspeakable happiness to know that Duncan sat ever at my side, and that when I opened my eyes I saw him. I cared nothing for the doctor, or for the woman, who was watching, trying to do something for me, but Duncan was like an angel of protection and repose, and whenever I awakened from the sleep into which I was perpetually falling, I found my hand still in his. There were flowers in the room, and on the bed some deep pink buds just opening, and their fragrance made me think, as I would arouse, that I was dead, and the quiet of the room seemed natural, yet when I opened my eyes and saw Duncan, and saw how the sun shone in through the windows and on Theresa's plants, and I knew I was still alive, I was content with that also. And it pleased me well to be silent and look at Duncan. In his face were lines of care, worn by days of vain search and nights of anxiety, and he looked older by years. These signs of faithful love were precious to me, and no other face could have been so fine, so beautiful, as was his. In his eyes there rested a deep peace, and he was almost as silent as I was. The futile, feverish ambitions and longings of past years, the unsatisfied desires which seek for peace in life instead of peace in the soul, passed away from me, and in that poor room I could have stayed forever, had Duncan stayed with me. I forgot that he had ever been less to me. It seemed that we both had been but waiting for this supreme moment of content and confidence. And I thought that had life, instead of death, been my portion, I could have made Duncan happy. If deep and true love, if tender care, if sympathy and comradeship, if mirth and happiness, if comfort, if gratitude and faithfulness, could avail against the pain and wear of life, all these should wait on him, surround and keep him safe. And I knew I could trust him. That firm mouth, those honest, clear eyes, the manliness and the strength of my lover, were dear to my very soul. And I did not vex myself because I was poor and pale, worn and no longer young, knowing as I did that he loved me better, knowing how much I needed him.
CHAPTER XVI.
When Bernard, in London, received a letter from Duncan which he did not understand, although he fancied he did, he did not tell Juliet of it. He was much worried about her. She had never recovered from her illness as she should have done, and he could not but know that she was grieving for me. He meant to force her to forget me, and he tried to fill her life so full that there would be no room for even a memory of me. And he had much to help him. In a great city new to her, and full of interest, what lack could there be of entertainment and diversion? And there was the estate, on which they intended to live, and there was new furnishing to be planned, and much to he bought, and money for the buying. She had a brougham of her own, a nurse for her child, and when her birthday came, what but a great string of pearls for the pearl of Bernard's heart? They made friends, and he took her everywhere. She threw herself into the life he created for her, and then she would draw back from it. She was fitful, and full
