Clara worshipped eloquently. As for the
goddess, she on her side, after the fashion
of woman-kind, first turned away from
her suppliant, then gradually bent down
towards him, and finally insisted upon
descending from her pedestal, and herself
turning the worshipper.

Mr. Temple, the wounded, was at once
conveyed to the hospital, where the doctor
found in him a bad case of concussion of
the brain. This was a cruel trial for the
week-old wife; but after the first shock
was over she buckled to her duty. "It's a
girl who, though she will run squeaking
from a mouse, can fight with lions," said
the old attorney, who was Clara's
godfather and guardian, and had much to do
with her education. The first of the lions
had now shown his claws, and Clara was
facing him gallantly. Notwithstanding her
own bruises and shakes, she had at once
established herself at her husband's
bedside, refusing to give up this place even for
a while to an experienced sister of charity.
For several days and nights, during which
her husband first lay in the bottom of a
deep well of unconsciousness, and then came
out of it only to wander through a dark
grove of delirium, the young wife watched
incessantly beside him, astonishing the
nurses of Tarbes by her quiet courage and
her patient helpfulness. As the aunt with
whom she had lived since her childhood
was a confirmed invalid, she was not unused
to a sick-room. The religious faith which
had been part of the life of her English
home shone forth like a charmed writing
when brought near to the fire of adversity.
Doctor Bernardine, the physician who
attended Charles, was a kindly family man,
and touched by her misfortunes, her youth,
and her patience, soon grew to treat her
much as he would have treated one of his
own daughters under the like circumstances.
At length Temple regained consciousness,
and the doctor had hope of him.
But Clara relaxed nothing of her loving
care. The shock she had herself received
in the railway accident, followed by long
anxiety and constant watching, told,
however, on her health. Her husband, whose
senses were half blunted by his long
unconsciousness, did not observe this change
in her; but the doctor's practised eye
detected it. She laughed at his fears for her,
disregarded his entreaties, and the stars of
love and of hope still shone calmly on in
her eyes beside her husband's sick-bed. One
morning, however, on awaking, Charles,
to his surprise, found a sister of charity
sitting beside him, and Doctor Bernardine
when he came was forced to reply to his
eager questioning that Clara had knocked
herself up with over fatigue. Days passed
by; the young husband very slowly
improved, but the young wife did not return
to his bedside. His distress and anxiety
about her knew no bounds, and were so
great as to retard his own recovery. Every
day he besieged the doctor with questions,
and every day he received from him evasive
and soothing replies, which the husband's
heart but too plainly felt were veils which
the physician, in compassionate care for
his health, strove to draw between him
and the truth. The truth was, that there
was very small hope of her life. Throughout
her illness she remained gentle and
brave. Her chief anxiety was still for her
husband; her chief regret when her own
death seemed near was caused by the
forecasting of his grief. No doubt deep down
in her heart there were fervent wishes and
prayers that she might live only a little
longer with him; but these were for no
human ear. At length one evening Charles
was aroused from dozing by a noise in his
room. On looking round he found that the
sound came from Sœur Thérèse, who was
weeping violently. Then the truth at once
flashed on him that Clara was dead. Yes;
why hide it from him? Her spirit, while
he slept unconscious of his loss, had died
away like a sweet strain of music.

The night was far advanced when Charles
Temple awoke from the uneasy sleep into
which, notwithstanding his passion of grief,
or rather because of it, physical weakness
made him fall. He had been dreaming
that he wandered with his pretty wife in
the deep Devonshire lane where first he
wooed her. He thought he had given her
a white rose from his breast. She took it;
but as she was about to place it in her
dress a drop of blood from her heart
suddenly fell upon the snowy petals; at
which he started and awoke with that sort
of vague nervousness in his mind which
not unusually haunts even healthy people
for a few minutes after awaking from a
disturbed dream. Hardly knowing what
he expected to see, he glanced timidly
round. Sœur Thérèse had left the room,
as it was her custom to do when her
patient slept: and he could distinguish the
sound of her regular heavy breathing as
she slumbered in the next apartment. The
candle which stood on a distant table
flickered fitfully as though fanned by an
invisible shroud fluttering somewhere near it
in the air. In its wavering light dark shadows
crept about in the corners of the