"Wh--where is she--Bertha?"
"Come with me, sir," said the old man sadly. He led the way past
sheet-hung bushes, over crumb-and-paper sprinkled lawns to a little
retreat under sheltering trees. One had to stoop to enter that arbored,
leaf encircled nest through which the sun fell like a dappled pattern on
the grass. Frank adjusted his eyes to the dimmer light before he took in
the picture: a girl lying, very pale and still, upon a gorgeous Indian
blanket. She looked at him, cried out and stretched her arms
forth feebly.
"Bertha!" He knelt down beside her, pressed his lips to hers. Her arms
about his neck were cold but strangely vibrant. For a moment they
remained thus. Then he questioned, anxiously, "Bertha? What is wrong?"
"Everything! The world!" she whispered. "When you left me dearest, I was
happy! I had never dreamed that one could be so glad! But afterward ...
I didn't dare to face the morning--and the truth!" Her lips quivered.
"I--I couldn't stand it, Frank," she finished weakly.
"She took morphia," said Jarvis. "When the earthquake came I couldn't
wake her. I was scared. I carried her out here."
"You tried to kill yourself!" Frank's tone was shocked, condemning.
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