Presently he went up to look at his wife, and, kneeling by her side, nature’s great comforter came to him.  He wept as though his heart would break—­tears that eased the burning brain, and lightened the heavy heart.  Dr. Letsom was a skillful, kindly man; he let the tears flow, and made no effort to stop them.  Then, after a time, disguised in a glass of wine, he administered a sleeping potion, which soon took effect.  He looked with infinite pity on the tired face.  What a storm, a tempest of grief had this man passed through!

“It will be kinder and better to let him sleep the day and night through, if he can,” said Stephen to himself.  “He would be too ill to attend to any business even if he were awake.”

So through the silent hours of the day Lord Charlewood slept, and the story spread from house to house, until the little town rang with it—­the story of the travelers, the young husband and wife, who, finding no room at the hotel, had gone to the doctors, where the poor lady had died.  Deep sympathy and pity were felt and expressed; kind-hearted mothers wept over the babe; some few were allowed to enter the solemn death chamber; and these went away haunted, as Dr. Evans was, by the memory of the lovely dead face.  Through it all Lord Charlewood slept the heavy sleep of exhaustion and fatigue, and it was the greatest mercy that could have befallen him.

The hour of wakening was to come—­Stephen Letsom never forgot it.  The bereaved man was frantic in his grief, mad with the sense of his loss.  Then the doctor, knowing how one great sorrow counteracts another, spoke of his father, reminding him that if he wished to see him alive he must take some little care of himself.

“I shall not leave her!” cried Lord Charlewood.  “Living or dead, she is dearer than all the world to me—­I shall not leave her!”

“Nor do I wish you to do so,” said the doctor.  “I know you are a strong man—­I believe you to be a brave one; in grief of this kind the first great thing is to regain self-control.  Try to regain yours, and then you will see for yourself what had better be done.”

Lord Charlewood discerned the truth.

“Have patience with me,” he said, “a little longer; the blow is so sudden, so terrible, I cannot yet realize what the world is without Madaline.”

A few hours passed, and the self-control he had struggled for was his.  He sent for Dr. Letsom.

“I have been thinking over what is best,” he said, “and have decided on all my plans.  Have you leisure to discuss them with me?”

The question seemed almost ironical to the doctor, who had so much more time to spare than he cared to have.  He sat down by Lord Charlewood’s side, and they held together the conversation that led to such strange results.

“I should not like a cold, stone grave for my beautiful wife,” said Lord Charlewood.  “She was so fair, so spirituelle, she loved all nature so dearly; she loved the flowers, trees, and the free fresh air of heaven.  Let her be where she can have them all now.”