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Adams, Samuel Hopkins, 1871-1958

"From a Bench in Our Square"

Listen
carefully, dear one. If you truly love me, you must do as I bid you.
Give me my chance of fooling fate; of making my death worth while. It
won't be hard." He took the little box from his pocket. "It will be
very easy."
"Give it to me, too," she pleaded like a child. "Ah, Ned, we can't part
now! Both of us together."
He shook his head, smiling. The man's face was as beautiful as a god's
at that moment or an angel's. "You must go back to your sister," he said
simply. "You haven't the right to die."
He turned to the table, drew a sheet of paper to him and wrote four
words. You all know what they were; his confession. Then his hand went
up, a swift movement, and a moment later he was setting back the glass
of water upon the desk whence he had taken it.
"Love and glory of my life, will you go?" he said.
"Yes," she whispered.
Not until then did the paralysis, which had gripped me when I saw Ned
turn the pellets into his hand, relax. I ran forward. The girl cried
out. Ned met me with his hand against my breast.
"How much have you heard?" he said quickly.
"Enough."
"Then you'll understand." His faith was more irresistible than a
thousand arguments. "Take her home, Chris."
I held out my hand. "Come," I said.
She turned and faced him. "Must I? Alone?" What a depth of desolation in
that word!
"There is no other way, dearest one.


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