any of my enemies who knew all about me see me after I've forgotten.
You'll take care that they don't, won't you, Henry?"

"Why, dear, that is morbid. What is it to a dead person, whose soul is in
heaven, who looks at his dead face? It will be so with you after
to-morrow if the process succeeds."

She thought a while, and then said, shaking her head--

"Well, anyhow, I'd rather none but my friends, of those who used to know
me, should see me. You'll see to it, Henry. You may look at me all you
please, and think of what you please as you look. I don't care to take
away the memory of anything from you. I don't believe a woman ever
trusted a man as I do you. I'm sure none ever had reason to. I should be
sorry if you didn't know all my faults. If there's a record to be kept of
them anywhere in the universe, I'd rather it should be in your heart than
anywhere else, unless, maybe, God has a heart like yours;" and she smiled
at him through those sweetest tears that ever well up in human eyes, the
tears of a limitless and perfect trust.

At one o'clock the next afternoon Madeline was sitting on the sofa in Dr.
Heidenhoff's reception-room with compressed lips and pale cheeks, while
Henry was nervously striding to and fro across the room, and furtively
watching her with anxious looks. Neither had had much to say that
morning.

"All ready," said the doctor, putting his head in at the door of his
office and again disappearing. Madeline instantly rose. Henry put his
hand on her arm, and said--