"Good morning, Mr. A.," said he.

"What is it, Peter, tell me quick! Has anything happened at home?" I cried impatiently.

"Mr. A., I am sorry to tell you, but you're"--

"Don't say she is dead! Don't say that!" I begged.

"Mount my horse, and I'll follow. Go as fast as you can for the animal is fresh," said he; but I heard nothing, saw nothing. I was simply clinging to the saddle, as the animal galloped back over the trail.

In a dazed condition I reached home. Our cabin was filled with sympathetic friends, trying to a.s.sist in some way. As I came in they dispersed, leaving me alone with Olga.

They had placed her upon a couch where she lay with a sweet smile upon her lips, but they were cold when I kissed them--her heart had ceased to beat, and for the first time in all our lives there was no answering pressure when I took her hands in mine.

Oh, the agony of that moment! No tongue can tell, no pen describe, the awful loneliness of that hour. She had been part of my life--of me. I could not live without her; I did not want to try.

Oh, G.o.d! How could I bear it? What should I do? I had given her my love, my life, and now she was dead--everything was swept away and there was absolutely nothing to live for. If I could only die! Dare I take my own life? No, for that would then mean everlasting separation, as she was doubtless now in the happiest state to which mortals could be a.s.signed.

I must try to reach her no matter at what cost. For hours I knelt beside her with her hands in mine, and my cheek beside her cold one.

I was again talking to Olga, as I fondled her face, her hair, her hands.

"Speak to me, my darling," I pleaded, "if only once more. I cannot live without you. Why did you leave me? How could you go without telling me?

Surely you did not intend to do it, did you, darling?" Eagerly I watched her face to see her blue eyes open and her lips once more move.

Could I bring her back by calling her? It might be so; and then I tried, repeating her name again and again, tenderly, lovingly, oh, so lovingly!

Hours pa.s.sed thus. The smile on her lips remained. Presently I listened, my arms about her neck and my head upon her breast.

I was quiet now. The awful storm which had well-nigh uprooted my very soul was gradually subsiding. I must be ready to hear her if she should come back with a message.

This I believed she would do. Many times we had talked together of these things, and each had faithfully promised the other to return, if possible, with comfort and a.s.sistance from the mysterious beyond in the event of a separation by death.

I could see her now as she looked while speaking, and then I grew calmer immediately.

I would wait.

By and by it came--only two words.

"The letter."

The letter! Where was it? I had not seen it--I had not thought to look for such a thing because her departure came so suddenly. A burning building close to our cabin, with wind blowing the flames toward her, had caused the fright and heart failure which deprived me of Olga--but a letter! I would search for it.

Among her writing materials I found it. A sealed packet, directed to me in her own dainty Swedish handwriting.

I cannot reproduce it here. It was for my eyes only, and written a week previously; but she said she was expecting soon to be called away. She did not wish to worry me with goodbyes, and in truth there was no need of saying them for she would be as constantly with me as ever, even though I could not always see her. She did not want me to forget her and hoped I could conveniently manage to keep the poor little body (in which she had lived for nearly thirty years) quite close to me where I could sometimes look upon her face.

All this and much more she had written; each letter and word of which comforted me as only Olga knew how to comfort, because she understood my very soul.

We had been made for each other. We were souls twinned in creation by a higher power than many know; but it had been given us to understand in her lifetime, and now that she had been called away for a season I must bear it as patiently as possible for her sake, and I would. G.o.d helping me, I would bear it! And my unreasoning grief should not disturb her quietude.

The day pa.s.sed.

In the evening a knock at the door brought me back to my objective senses. I had been oblivious to the outside world all day.

"We thought you might like some coffee and supper, and I have brought it to you," said a kind miner, who was also a neighbor.

"Wife and I will come and stay all night here if you will go to our cabin and get some rest."

I thanked him, declining his last offer, but drank the hot coffee. I then asked him if he would go out and secure the use of the adjoining vacant log cabin for me, so that I could immediately move into it.

This he did, returning in half an hour, asking what further service he could render.

I told him I would move all my belongings into the log cabin, leaving Olga here. This was her house, and it was still to be her home.

By midnight this was done. The man had gone home after making me promise to call him when I wanted help.

In Olga's cabin of two small rooms there remained only a stove, a couch upon which she still rested, and an easy lounging chair.

The door at the front I soon padlocked on the outside, and barricaded within, leaving the back door as the only entrance. Next a man was hired to dig a narrow trench about the whole cabin to conduct all surface water away from the lot. During the hours following I busied myself with the receptacle which would contain the still beautiful, but now discarded body, of my darling Olga.

Carefully removing a part of the flooring in the center of the room, I began digging underneath. The ground was frozen. A pick and shovel in my hands found their way into the frost-locked earth and gravel; but at a depth of about five feet I stopped.

Her bed was deep enough; also long and wide enough. Its walls were of ice.

They had dressed her in a robe of pale blue veiling, distinctly suited to her, upon which rested the long braids of her yellow hair, while her only ornament was her wedding ring upon her finger.

How perfectly serene and happy she looked! I fully expected her to open her lips and speak. When this did not happen, the sense of my awful loss surged back into my brain, seeming almost to take my reason; but another quiet hour by the side of my darling partially restored me.

It was midnight. A perfect storm of grief had just spent itself and left me weak and weary. I threw myself, with a heavy sigh, into the depth of the lounging chair.

Presently I slept. What was that? A bit of beautiful yellow light floated gracefully above Olga's head. With a fast-beating heart I watched it from my resting place. It grew in size, and increased in height, gradually a.s.suming the form of my darling, a complete counterpart of the one lying before me in the soft blue gown.

The face, the golden braids, the fingers, and the wedding ring were all there, completed by a smile so heavenly that I gazed as one transfixed.

Could this, then, be Olga, and not a stray beam of light which had struggled through the curtains?

"Olga!" I cried, stretching out my arms toward her in an ecstasy of gladness.

"Dear Victor! Have no fear. I will come again." The voice seemed like Olga's and as full of love as ever.

With that the beautiful yellow light began slowly to fade, the form of my beloved melted into a haze which drifted gradually upward and out of sight. Then I awoke.

Weeks pa.s.sed, during which the fall rains set in, and I was working as hard as ever; not so much in a feverish desire for the gold I was taking out of the ground, but because the work helped me to forget my sorrow. I did not cease to think hourly of Olga, but I wished to put behind me the shock of her sudden leave-taking, and remember the fact that she was still in memory mine, that she was watching over me and would visit me in my dreams.

My all-absorbing love for her I could not--did not wish to put away from me. I had loved her so devotedly that I envied the pa.s.sing breeze which played among the loose locks of the hair on her forehead. I had envied the dust of the road as it clung to her feet because it could remain so near to her; and I longed to become the atmosphere she breathed, that I might live a part of her very physical being This sort of love never dies, because it is part of one's const.i.tution and sub-consciousness, and cannot be eradicated.

I grew more and more silent. I was physically well and strong, but looked forward from morning until night to going home to my cabin and Olga. Each evening when my lonely supper had been eaten I turned the key of the adjoining cabin door, and carefully locked it behind me. From the outer place I entered the room which was now a sacred spot. A solitary candle gave all the light required. Lifting the section of flooring upon which had been placed two strong hinges, a few turns of the mechanical contrivance brought up from below the narrow bed in which the earthly form of Olga rested, securely covered by clear and heavy gla.s.s.

In my low, lounging chair I sat for hours beside her, told her of my love which would remain forever the same; I reminded her of her pledges of constancy, reviving instances of our past lives, even bringing to my mind bright bits of pleasantry which had been habitual to her while here.