"If there be really life beyond the tomb, and judgment after death, how can I face it ?"--I cannot do him any good; he will neither be enlightened, nor roused, nor comforted by anything I say; and yet he clings to me with unrelenting pertinacity--with a kind of childish desperation, as if I could save him from the fate he dreads.

He keeps me night and day beside him.

He is holding my left hand now, while I write; he has held it thus for hours: sometimes quietly, with his pale face upturned to mine: sometimes clutching my arm with violence--the big drops starting from his forehead at the thoughts of what he sees, or thinks he sees, before him.

If I withdraw my hand for a moment it distresses him.
'"Stay with me, Helen," he says; "let me hold you so: it seems as if harm could not reach me while you are here.

But death will come--it is coming now--fast, fast!--and--oh, if I could believe there was nothing after!" '"Don't try to believe it, Arthur; there is joy and glory after, if you will but try to reach it!" '"What, for me ?" he said, with something like a laugh.