This last Lot folded neatly and addressed it “To my fellow-townsmen,” and laid it in a conspicuous place on his desk, and then wrote on another sheet and put that in his pocket.  Then he opened a drawer of the desk, and took out all the trinkets which he had offered Madelon, in their pretty cases, and with them in his hands crept out of the room, and up-stairs, into the chamber which he had caused to be decked out so newly and grandly when he had thought to marry her.  There was a great carven chest in a corner of the room, which Lot unlocked, and took from thence all those rich fabrics which he had bought for Madelon.  And then he laid them all—­the silken stuffs and plumes and fine linens and jewels—­out on the great bed, under the grand canopy, and placed on the top the sheet of paper on which he had last written, “For Madelon Gordon.”

Margaret Bean had listened when Lot climbed the stairs.  She heard him when he came down again, entered his library, and shut the door.  She waited a long time.  For some reason which she did not herself know she felt cold with terror.  She would not let her husband leave her alone in the kitchen for a moment.  At last, when it was nearly noon, she bade him keep close at her heels, and went to the library door and knocked, and when no answer came, knocked again and again and again, louder and louder and louder.  Then she made her husband open the door, with fierce urgings, and peered around his shoulder into the room.  Then she gave one great shriek, and caught the old man by the arm with a frantic clutch, and was out of the house with him and screaming up the street.

Saturday morning Burr and Madelon came riding into the village.  As they passed up the street everybody whom they met saluted them with a manner which had in it something respectful, apologetic, and solemn.  The lovers felt no wonder at such return of cordiality, seeing in everything but reflections of their own moods, and knew not what it meant until they reached home.

Then Elvira Gordon, meeting them at the door, told them that Lot was dead by his own hand, by a knife-thrust which crossed the old wound in his side; and she dwelt upon the reason for his deed:  that he had been slowly dying from the disease of his lungs, and had not the courage to die by inches, which reason now all the town believed, since the doctor had said no word in contradiction, and never would, being mindful of his oath.

Madelon listened, white and still, saying not a word; and she said nothing when, up in their chamber, whither she went to take off her bonnet, Burr, who had followed, took her in his arms, and they stood together, looking at each other and trembling.  Knowing not, and never to know, the whole which he had done for them, they yet knew enough.  Suddenly, in the light of their own love another greater showed revealed; and each exalted the image of Lot Gordon above the other, and was acquaint with the spirit of what he had written and kept back; for love that so outspeeds self and death needs no speech nor written sign to prove its being.