"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. If I could write a book, I should write a merry
book--a book that would make people laugh."
CHAPTER IX
The discussion arose in this way. I had proposed a match between our
villain and the daughter of the local chemist, a singularly noble and
pure-minded girl, the humble but worthy friend of the heroine.
Brown had refused his consent on the ground of improbability. "What in
thunder would induce him to marry _her_?" he asked.
"Love!" I replied; "love, that burns as brightly in the meanest villain's
breast as in the proud heart of the good young man.
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