The new life stirring in her shuddered at the thought of mortality.

That breath of the divine which we name Love began already to proclaim itself immortal.
Yet Molly, that other girl, had loved--and died.
The doctor, too, was lost in self communings.

Already, with the words not cold upon his lips, he was surprised that he had told the story.

How could he?
Why had he?
That pitiful little story of Molly which had been too sacred for the touch of a word.

Above all, why had the telling been a relief?
It was a relief, he knew that.