She was dying. Already beyond was near. Her spirit was approaching the afterwards. With a brave effort, she turned her face to her husband and sweetheart, to whom she was more than all. Feebly her trembling lips whispered, "It is cold." The icy finger of the skeleton with the scythe had already touched the body that was his forfeit. Into the man's eyes came a hard glint, the light of battle. His grief declared war against the invincible antagonist whose very defeat is but transient, whose victories are eternal. Again she turned to him. "It is dark," she murmured. Tenderly he kissed the faded lips and lighted the candle. She was dead. With her had withered all the accumulated hopes and tender plans of youth and love. With her had died all of himself but his body. His being was minus. He tried to forget, but memory was stubborn and cruel. Always he would see her in his tortured mind, with the tender smile of old on her lips and the soft glow in her eyes, and in desperate abandon, he ...
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