of the cloak on her shoulder, he clasped his arms about her with a
boyish petulance, saying, "Christie, Christie, my little girl wife,
I love you, I love you, and you are killing me."

She quivered from head to foot as his fair, wavy hair brushed her
neck, his despairing face sank lower until his cheek, hot as fire,
rested on the cool, olive flesh of her arm. A warm moisture oozed up
through her skin, and as he felt its glow he looked up. Her teeth,
white and cold, were locked over her under lip, and her eyes were
as gray stones.

Not murderers alone know the agony of a death sentence.

"Is it all useless? all useless, dear?" he said, with lips starving
for hers.

"All useless," she repeated. "I have no love for you now. You
forfeited me and my heart months ago, when you said _those two
words_."

His arms fell away from her wearily, he arose mechanically, he
placed his little gray checked cap on the back of his yellow curls,
the old-time laughter was dead in the blue eyes that now looked
scared and haunted, the boyishness and the dimples crept away for
ever from the lips that quivered like a child's; he turned from her,
but she had looked once into his face as the Law Giver must have
looked at the land of Canaan outspread at his feet. She watched
him go down the long path and through the picket gate, she watched
the big yellowish dog that had waited for him lumber up on to its
feet--stretch--then follow him. She was conscious of but two things,