He left her, and at last,
broken-hearted, found his way, in illness and poverty to the hospital,
where, toward the last, he was cared for by a noble girl, a companion of
his boyhood and his better days, who urged his wife to visit him. She
left him alone, said unpleasant things to the girl, did not come to see
her husband when he was dead, and provided nothing for his burial. You
see that, like you, she hated suffering and misery--and criminals. The
girl and her mother paid the expenses of the funeral, and, with myself,
were the only mourners. I am doubtful if the wife knows even where he
lies. I admit that the story sounds melodramatic; but truth is more drama
than comedy, I fancy. Now, what do you think of it all, Mrs. Falchion?"
I had felt her shrink a little at the earlier part of my story, as if she
feared that her own tale was to be brutally bared before her; but that
soon passed, and she languidly tapped the chair-arm as the narrative
continued. When it was finished, she leaned over slightly, and with these
same fingers tapped my arm. I thrilled involuntarily.
"He died, did he?" she said.
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