I wished to give up the fight for the seat, but when I suggested it, saying that I was ill, my committee turned upon me fiercely.

“Smallpox,” they declared, “was breaking out all over the city, and I should stop there to ‘sweep out my own grate,’ even if they had to keep me by force.  If I did not, they would expose me in a fashion I should not like.”

Then I gave in, feeling that after all it did not matter much, as in any case it was impossible for me to leave Dunchester.  Personally I had no longer any fear of contagion, for within a week from that fatal night four large vesicles had formed on my arm, and their presence assured me that I was safe.  At any other time this knowledge would have rejoiced me more than I can tell, but now, as I have said, I did not greatly care.

Another six days went by, bringing me to the eve of the election.  At lunch time I managed to get home, and was rejoiced to find that Jane, who for the past forty-eight hours had been hovering between life and death, had taken a decided turn for the better.  Indeed, she told me so herself in quite a strong voice as I stood in the doorway of her room, adding that she hoped I should have a good meeting that night.

It would seem, however, that almost immediately after I left a change for the worse set in, of such a character that Jane felt within herself her last hour was at hand.  Then it was that she ordered the nurse to write a telegram at her dictation.  It was to Dr. Merchison, and ran:  “Come and see me at once, do not delay as I am dying.—­Jane.”

Within half an hour he was at her door.  Then she bade the nurse to throw a sheet over her, so that he might not see her features which were horribly disfigured, and to admit him.

“Listen,” she said, speaking through the sheet, “I am dying of the smallpox, and I have sent for you to beg your pardon.  I know now that you were right and I was wrong, although it broke my heart to learn it.”

Then by slow degrees and in broken words she told him enough of what she had learned to enable him to guess the rest, never dreaming, poor child, of the use to which he would put his knowledge, being too ill indeed to consider the possibilities of a future in which she could have no part.

The rest of that scene has nothing to do with the world; it has nothing to do with me; it is a private matter between two people who are dead, Ernest Merchison and my daughter, Jane Therne.  Although my own beliefs are nebulous, and at times non-existent, this was not so in my daughter’s case.  Nor was it so in the case of Ernest Merchison, who was a Scotchman, with strong religious views which, I understand, under these dreadful circumstances proved comfortable to both of them.  At the least, they spoke with confidence of a future meeting, which, if their faith is well founded, was not long delayed indeed; for, strong as he seemed to be, within the year Merchison followed his lover to the churchyard, where they lie side by side.