He was therefore surprised to find her still breathing, as he entered the
room where she lay on a low couch, with the room in shadow.
"How are you feeling, Iris?"
He paused an instant at her bedside and gazed down into the sunken face.
"I--I feel bad, very bad."
"Curse it, I wish you were dead!" He did not utter the words aloud,
however. Instead he drew a chair to the side of the bed and smoothed the
dark hair from her white brow, and pretended to feel the deepest sympathy
for her sufferings.
"You remained away a long time, Andrew," murmured the thin lips of the
sick wife.
"Did you miss me, dear?"
"Very much. Promise you will remain with me until the--the last, Andrew."
"I won't leave again until you are better," he said, with a peculiar
gleam of the eye.
"Then you will stay always."
"Why so?"
"I shall never be better, Andrew."
"Nonsense."
"You always say that, but I know that I am in my last sickness, and--and
I want to have a solemn talk with you, Andrew, the last I will have to
say to you on earth."
He fidgeted uneasily in his chair, but could not well refuse to listen.
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