"Why do you dwell on the idea of death to-night ?" "I am ill; yes, past all cure, my dear," said the old man, gently raising her hand to his lips, and kissing it.
"What do you mean ?" asked Corona, suddenly rising to her feet and laying her hand affectionately upon his shoulder.

"Why have you never told me ?" "Why should I tell you--except that it is near, and you must be prepared?
Why should I burden you with anxiety?
But you were so gentle and kind to-night, upon the stairs," he said, with some hesitation, "that I thought perhaps it would be a relief to you to know--to know that it is not for long." There was something so gentle in his tone, so infinitely pathetic in his thought that possibly he might lighten the burden his wife bore so bravely, there was something at last so human in the loving regret with which he spoke, that Corona forgot all his foolish ways, his wig and his false teeth and his petty vanities, and letting her head fall upon his shoulder, burst into passionate tears.
"Oh no, no!" she sobbed.

"It must be a long time yet; you must not die!" "It may be a year, not more," he said gently.

"God bless you for those tears, Corona--the tears you have shed for me.

Good night, my dearest." He let her sink upon her chair, and his hand rested for one moment upon her raven hair.