CAMELIA was sitting again by Mary’s bed when Perior was announced the next morning.

“You must go and see him to-day,” said Mary.

“Why—must I?”

“I should like to see him,” Mary’s voice had now a thread only of breath; to speak at all she had to speak very slowly, “and you must tell him first, that I know.”

“Mary—dear——”

“I do not mind.”

“No, one does not, with him. I will see him, tell him.

“Talk—be nice to him; do not be angry with him because he will not marry me.” Her smile hurt Camelia, who bent over her, saying—

“If I had not gone!—you would not be here now; we might have kept you well much longer.”

“That would have been a pity—wouldn’t it?” said Mary, quite without bitterness.

“Oh, Mary! Could we not have made you happy?”

“Perhaps it is knowing that I can never be well that keeps me now from being sad,” Mary answered; “don’t cry, Camelia—I am not sad.”

But Camelia cried as she went down the stairs.

A pale spring sunshine filled the morning-room, where she found Perior. She had hardly noticed the outside world for the last few days, and it gave her now a sweetly poignant shock to see that the trees were all blurred with green, a web of life embroidering the network of black branches; beyond them a high, pale, spring sky. She saw the green really before seeing Perior, for he was looking at it, his back turned to her as she came in. Then, as he faced her, his aging struck her more forcibly than the world’s renewal of youth. As she looked at him, and despite the memory of their last words together, despite the tears upon her cheeks, she smiled. She had forgiven him. He had been right, she wrong; and then—his sad face, surely his hair had whitened? The love for Mary that overflowed her heart seemed to clasp him in its pity and penitence, but she could only feel it as the overflow.

“She wants to see you,” she said, giving him her hand, and she added, for the joy of last night must find expression, “She knows everything. She followed me that day—and half guessed the truth—only half; I had to tell her all. And she has forgiven me—for everything.” Camelia bent her forehead against his shoulder and sobbed—“She is dying!—and she loves me!”

“My darling Camelia,” said Perior, putting his hand on her hair.

To Camelia the words could only mean that he forgave—and loved—as Mary did; but she felt the deep peace of truest union.

“Then she is dying in the sunshine, isn’t she?” he added, “not in that horrible darkness.”

“Yes—but such a cold, white sunshine. It is because she feels no longer. It is peace—not happiness; just ‘peace out of pain.’”

“And cannot we two doubters add, ‘With God be the rest’?”

“We must add it. To hope so strongly—is almost to believe, isn’t it? Come to her now.”

She left him at Mary’s door.

The nurse, with her face of hardened patience, rose as he entered.

“I will leave you with Miss Fairleigh, sir. Call me if I am needed.”

Her look was significant.

Perior felt his heart shake a little as he went round the white curtain. He was afraid. If he should blunder—stab the ebbing life with some stupidity! Something of this tender fear showed in his look at the dying girl, and the fear deepened for a moment to acutest pain at sight of her. Was that the Mary he had last seen sitting over the account books?—the Mary he had fatuously told to keep cheerful? Remorse wrung his heart. But as for the fear of hurting her, Mary was very far beyond all little mundane tremors, and they faded away, ashamed for having been, as he clasped her hand, and met her eyes; their still smile quieted even his pain, and wrapped him in its awe and beauty.

He sat down beside her, keeping her hand in his.

“Dear Mary,” he said.

For a long time she did not speak; indeed Perior thought that she might not wish to employ the coarser medium of communication, could not, perhaps; her eyes, as they rested upon him, seemed amply significant; but he could not fathom, quite, their ultimate meaning. Perhaps a great sadness underlay their calm. But at last, very faintly and very slowly she said—

“You saw Camelia.”

“Yes.”

“You know—that I was—cruel to Camelia?”

“No, I did not know.”

“I was.”

“I cannot believe that, Mary.”

“I was, I misjudged her. I struck her. She did not tell you that?”

“No,” said Perior, after the little pause his surprise allowed itself.

“I did, I struck her,” Mary repeated, with a certain placidity. “You understand?” she added.

Perior was putting two and two together; the result was clearly comprehensible.

“Yes, I understand,” he said.

“Camelia understood too.”

“Yes,” Perior repeated his assent, adding, “You have saved Camelia, Mary; I don’t think she can ever again be blind—or stupid.”

“Camelia—stupid?” Mary’s little smile was almost arch.

“That is the kindest word, isn’t it?” Perior smiled back at her, “Let us be kind, for we are all of us stupid—more or less; you very much less, dear Mary.”

Mary’s look was grave again, though it thanked him. “You are kind. Camelia has been very unhappy,” the words were spoken suddenly, and almost with energy.

“I don’t doubt that.” Mary closed her eyes, as if all effort, even the passive effort of sight, must be concentrated in her words.

“And I am afraid—she will be very unhappy about me.”

“That is unavoidable.”

“But—unjust. She is nothing—that I thought. Nothing is her fault. It is no one’s fault.—I was born—not rich, not pretty, not clever, not even contented; it is no one’s fault. I have been cruel. You must comfort her,” and Mary suddenly opening her eyes looked at him fixedly. “You must comfort her,” she repeated, adding, “I know that you love Camelia.”

Perior, with some shame, felt the red go over his face. Mary observed his confusion calmly.

“You need not mind telling me,” she said.

“Dear Mary, I am abased before you.”

“That isn’t kind to me,” Mary smiled. “You do love her—do you not?”

“Yes, I love her.”

“And she loves you.”

“I have thought it—sometimes,” said Perior, looking away.

“She has always loved you. You too have misjudged Camelia. She told me—last night—she told me that you had rejected her.”

“Did she, Mary?” Perior looked down at the hand in his.

“Yes—through love of me. You understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“It brought us together,” said Mary, closing her eyes again.

She lay so long without speaking that Perior thought she must, in her weakness, have fallen asleep, but at last she said, the words wavering, for her breath was very shallow, “That is what Camelia needed. Some one—to love—a great deal——” And with an intentness, like the last leap of a dying flame, she added, looking at him, “You will marry Camelia.”

“If Camelia will have me,” said Perior, bending over her hand and kissing it.

A gleam of gaiety, of pure joyousness, shone on Mary’s face. Humorously, without a shadow of bitterness, she said, “I win—where Camelia failed!”

The tears rushed to Perior’s eyes. He could not speak. He rose, and stooping over her, he took her in his arms and kissed her.

“Ah!” she said quickly, “it is much better to die. I love you.” She looked up at him from the circle of his arms. “How could I have lived?”

At the great change in her face he wondered if he had done well in yielding to the impulse of pure tenderness; but still supporting her fragile shoulders he said, stammering—

“Dear child—in dying—you have let us know you—and adore you.”

The light ebbed softly from her eyes as she still looked up at him. “Perhaps—I told you—hoping it——” she murmured. These words of victorious humility were Mary’s last. When Camelia came in a little while afterwards she saw that Mary’s smile knew, and drew her near; but standing beside her, holding her hand, she felt that Mary would not speak to her again. Through her tears she looked across the bed at Perior; his head was bowed on the hand he held; his shoulders shook with weeping. At the unaccustomed sight a half dull wonder filled her.

For a long time Mary smiled before her, as they held her hands; and Camelia only felt clearly that the smile was white and beautiful. She waited for it to turn to her again. Only on meeting Perior’s solemn look the sense of final awe smote upon her.

“She is dead,” he said.

To Camelia the smile seemed still to live.

“Dead!” she repeated. Perior gently put the hand he held on Mary’s breast.

“Not dead!” said Camelia, “she had not said good-bye to me!”

Perior came to her; his silence, that could not comfort, answered her. She fell upon her knees beside the bed, and her desperate sobs wailed uselessly against the irretrievable.