Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days,and summer days,and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes,and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist,and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.
Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey.It was Brently Mallard who entered,a little travel-stained,composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far the scene of the accident,and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards'quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.
When the doctors came they said she had died heart disease-of the joy that kills.