It was not a cry.

It came from no human voice.

I have heard the voice of human pain till I know its every note, and have grown careless to it; but I have prayed God on my knees that I may never hear that sound again, for it was the sob of a soul.
"It wailed through the quiet house and passed away, and neither of us stirred.
"At length, with the return of the blood to our veins, we went upstairs together.

He had crept from his own room along the passage into hers.

He had not had strength enough to pull the sheet off, though he had tried.
He lay across the bed with one hand grasping hers." * * * * * My nurse sat for a while without speaking, a somewhat unusual thing for her to do.
"You ought to write your experiences," I said.
"Ah!" she said, giving the fire a contemplative poke, "if you'd seen as much sorrow in the world as I have, you wouldn't want to write a sad book." "I think," she added, after a long pause, with the poker still in her hand, "it can only be the people who have never _known_ suffering who can care to read of it.