CHAPTER XXIII

vedhimsomuch,thedearlittlething.Hewassosweet,Valancy—withsuchlovelyblueeyes—andlittleringsofpalegoldhairlikesilkfloss—andtinydimpledhands.Iusedtobitehissatin-smoothlittlefaceallover—softly,soasnottohurthim,youknow——” “Iknow,”saidValancy,wincing.“Iknow—awomanalwaysknows—anddreams——” “Andhewasallmine.Nobodyelsehadanyclaimonhim.Whenhedied,oh,Valancy,IthoughtImustdietoo—Ididn’tseehowanybodycouldenduresuchanguishandlive.Toseehisdearlittleeyesandknowhewouldneveropenthemagain—tomisshiswarmlittlebodynestledagainstmineatnightandthinkofhimsleepingaloneandcold,hisweefaceunderthehardfrozenearth.Itwassoawfulforthefirstyear—afterthatitwasalittleeasier,onedidn’tkeepthinking‘thisdaylastyear’—butIwassogladwhenIfoundoutIwasdying.” “‘Whocouldendurelifeifitwerenotforthehopeofdeath?’”murmuredValancysoftly—itwasofcourseaquotationfromsomebookofJohnFoster’s. “I’mgladI’vetoldyouallaboutit,”sighedCissy.“Iwan