"When?" he said.
Mabel lifted her face.
"Oh! Oliver," she murmured. "It was an hour ago. ... Look at this."
She released the dead hands and showed the rosary still twisted there; it had snapped in the last struggle, and a brown bead lay beneath the fingers.
"I did what I could," sobbed Mabel. "I was not hard with her. But she would not listen. She kept on crying out for the priest as long as she could speak."
"My dear . . . " began the man. Then he, too, went down on his knees by his wife, leaned forward and kissed the rosary, while tears blinded him.
"Yes, yes," he said. "Leave her in peace. I would not move it for the world: it was her toy, was it not?"
The girl stared at him, astonished.
"We can be generous, too," he said. "We have all the world at last. And she—she has lost nothing: it was too late."
"I did what I could."
"Yes, my darling, and you were right. But she was too old; she could not understand."
He paused.
"Euthanasia?" he whispered with something very like tenderness.
She nodded.
"Yes," she said; "just as the last agony began. She resisted, but I knew you would wish it."
They talked together for an hour in the garden before Oliver went to his room; and he began to tell her presently of all that had passed.
