Fifteen Years After

I think she knew that she was going to die; she always spoke of my
future, never of _our_ future. It is impossible for me to tell how sweet
she was; how gentle, how patient and resigned. Nor, indeed, do I wish
to tell it, it is too sad. But this I will say, I believe that if ever
a woman drew near to perfection while yet living on the earth, Stella
Quatermain did so.

The fatal hour drew on. My boy Harry was born, and his mother lived
to kiss and bless him. Then she sank. We did what we could, but we had
little skill, and might not hold her back from death. All through one
weary night I watched her with a breaking heart.

The dawn came, the sun rose in the east. His rays falling on the peak
behind were reflected in glory upon the bosom of the western sky. Stella
awoke from her swoon and saw the light. She whispered to me to open the
door of the hut. I did so, and she fixed her dying eyes on the splendour
of the morning sky. She looked on me and smiled as an angel might
smile. Then with a last effort she lifted her hand, and, pointing to the
radiant heavens, whispered: "_There, Allan, there!_"

It was done, and I was broken-hearted, and broken-hearted I must wander
to the end. Those who have endured my loss will know my sorrow; it
cannot be written. In such peace and at such an hour may I also die!