In The Sick-room

Julia had the smallpox, not varioloid, but the veritable thing itself,
in its most aggravated form. Where she took it, or when, she did not
know, nor did it matter. She had it, and for ten days she had seen no
one but her husband and physician, and had no care but such as Guy could
give her. He had been unremitting in his attention. Tender and gentle as
a woman, he had nursed her night and day, with no thought for himself
and the risk he ran. It was a bad disease at the best, and now in its
worst type it was horrible, but Julia bore up bravely, thinking always
more of others than of herself, and feeling so glad that Providence had
sent them to those out-of-the-way rooms, where she had at first thought
she could not pass a night comfortably. Her children were in the room
adjoining, and she could hear their little voices as they played
together, or asked for their mamma and why they must not see her. Alas!
they would never see her again; she knew it now, and Guy knew it, too.
The doctor had told them so when he left them that night, and between
the husband and wife words had been spoken such as are only said when
hearts which have been one are about to be severed forever.

To Julia there was no terror in death, save as it took her from those
she loved, her husband and her little ones, and these she had given into
God's keeping, knowing his promises are sure. To Guy she had said: "You have made me so happy. I want you to remember that when I am gone;
I would not have one look or act of yours changed if I could, and yet,
forgive me, Guy, for saying it, but I know you must often have thought
of that other one whom, you loved first, and it may be best."