Came there a woman weak and wan, out of the mob, the murk, the mire;
 Frail as a reed, a fellow ghost, weary with woe, with sorrowing;
 Two pale souls in the legion lost; lo! Love bent with a tender wing,
 Taught them a joy so deep, so true,
 it seemed that the whole-world fabric shook,
 Thrilled and dissolved in radiant dew; then Brown made him a golden book,
 Full of the faith that Life is good, that the earth is a dream divinely fair,
 Lauding his gem of womanhood in many a lyric rich and rare;
 Took it to Jones, who shook his head: "I will consider it," he said.
While he considered, Brown's wife lay clutched in the tentacles of pain;
 Then came the doctor, grave and grey; spoke of decline, of nervous strain;
 Hinted Egypt, the South of France -- Brown with terror was tiger-gripped.
 Where was the money? What the chance? Pitiful God! . . . the manuscript!
 A thousand dollars! his only hope!
 he gazed and gazed at the garret wall. . . .
 Reached at last for the envelope, turned to his wife and told her all.
 Told of his friend, his promise true; told like his very heart would break:
 "Oh, my dearest! what shall I do? shall I not sell it for your sake?"
 Ghostlike she lay, as still as doom; turned to the wall her weary head;
 Icy-cold in the pallid gloom, silent as death . . . at last she said:
 "Do! my husband? Keep your vow! Guard his secret and let me die. . . .
 Oh, my dear, I must tell you now -- _THE WOMAN HE LOVED AND WRONGED WAS I_;
 Darling! I haven't long to live: I never told you -- forgive, forgive!"
For a long, long time Brown did not speak;
 sat bleak-browed in the wretched room;
 Slowly a tear stole down his cheek,
 and he kissed her hand in the dismal gloom.
 To break his oath, to brand her shame;
 his well-loved friend, his worshipped wife;
 To keep his vow, to save her name, yet at the cost of what? Her life!
 A moment's space did he hesitate, a moment of pain and dread and doubt,
 Then he broke the seals, and, stern as fate,
 unfolded the sheets and spread them out. . . .
 On his knees by her side he limply sank,
 peering amazed -- _EACH PAGE WAS BLANK_.
(For oh, the supremest of our art are the stories we do not dare to tell,
 Locked in the silence of the heart,
 for the awful records of Heav'n and Hell.)
Yet those two in the silence there, seemed less weariful than before.
Hark! a step on the garret stair, a postman knocks at the flimsy door.

 Prev. P 66/66