'Letter to my husband. To be given to him on my death.'
She stared at it blankly. It seemed a ghost. She had actually forgotten it. Now she remembered sealing it, with tears that gathered thick as in fancy she saw him opening it, with big trembling fingers, in a loneliness that tore her heart to imagine. What would he do? How could he endure it, with age coming on—so very far in spirit from his own people; thrown back for help and comfort on some cold sense of duty shot with self-interest, instead of her own warm companionship and devotion?
'Letter to my husband. To be given to him on my death.'
She stared at it blankly. It seemed a ghost. She had actually forgotten it. Now she remembered sealing it, with tears that gathered thick as in fancy she saw him opening it, with big trembling fingers, in a loneliness that tore her heart to imagine. What would he do? How could he endure it, with age coming on—so very far in spirit from his own people; thrown back for help and comfort on some cold sense of duty shot with self-interest, instead of her own warm companionship and devotion?