Think what a peck of torture I'm letting run to waste, as that
waterfall yonder runs to waste in its basin. But it wouldn't be
true. Your wife was an angel. Drink that comfort--drink it into
every cranny of your soul. . . . And now hold your head again.
I loved Santa, I tell you.'
"'You let her die,' he muttered sullenly.
"'Think, you fool--think!' I commanded. 'If she had lived, you would
have died, and she would be sitting where you are sitting at this
moment, and I here, and the moon swimming above us two--Would you
have had it so?'
"'My God!' he blurted, wiping the back of a hand across his eyes.
'This is too much for me. . . .'
"I stood and picked up the engineering tool. 'For me, too,' said I,
'it is enough. . . . Now come and choose the spot, and I will fall to
my part of the work.'
"But to this he demurred, saying vaguely that he was upset; that the
spot for the grave must be chosen with care and by daylight; that he
must first finish the coffin, and then take some rest. There would
be time enough after we had breakfasted.
"I believed that I understood.
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