The sudden flash of agony that came into Lord Charlewood’s face was a revelation to Dr. Letsom; he laid his hand with a gentle touch on the stranger’s arm.

“Do not fear the worst,” he said.  “She is in the hands of Heaven.  I am taking only ordinary precautions.  I do not say she is in danger—­I merely say that she is not so well as I should like to see her.”

Another hour passed, the church clock at Castledene was striking two, and Dr. Evans had joined the grave-faced group around the sick woman’s bed.  He, too, had looked with compassion on the beautiful young face—­he, too, had bent forward to listen to the whisper that parted the white lips.

“Am I going to die?” she asked.

He tried to smile and say something about hope; but Nurse Furney knew, and she turned away lest the sick woman’s questioning eyes should read what her face betrayed.

Three o’clock struck.  A sweet voice, abrupt and clear, broke the silence of the solemn scene.

“Hubert.  Where is Hubert?  I must see him.”

“Tell him to come,” said Dr. Evans to Dr. Letsom, “but do not tell him there is any danger.”

A few minutes later Lord Charlewood stood by the side of his young wife.

“Hubert,” she said to him, with outstretched hands, “Hubert, my husband, I am so frightened.  They do not tell me the truth.  Am I going to die?”

He bent down to kiss her.

“Die, my darling?  No, certainly not.  You are going to live, to be what you always have been, the dearest, sweetest wife in the world.”  And he believed implicitly[1] what he said.

Then came a strange sleep, half waking, half dreaming.  Lady Charlewood fancied that she was with her husband on the seashore, and that the waves were coming in so fast that they threatened to drown her, they were advancing in such great sheets of foam.  Once more she clung to him, crying: 

“Help me, Hubert; I shall be drowned—­see how the tide is coming in!”

Then the doctor bade him leave her—­he must go down to the shabby, lowly little room, where the gas was burning, and the early dawn of the morning was coming in.  The agony of unrest was on him.  He thought how useless was money, after all; here he was with thousands at his command, yet he could not purchase help or safety for her whom his soul loved best.  He was helpless, he could do nothing to assist her; he could trust only to Heaven.

He went from the window to the door; he trembled at the solemn silence, the terrible hush; he longed for the full light of day.  Suddenly he heard a sound that stirred the very depths of his heart—­that brought a crimson flush to his face and tears to his eyes.  It was the faint cry of a little child.  Presently he heard the footsteps of Dr. Letsom; and the next minute the doctor was standing before him, with a grave look on his face.

“You have a little daughter,” he said—­“a beautiful little girl—­but your wife is in danger; you had better come and see her.”