“Oh, my wife, my wife!” he groaned, “how am I to bear it?”

The white hands softly clasped his own.

“You will bear it in time,” she said.  “I know how you will miss me; but you have the baby and your father—­you will find enough to fill your life.  But you will always love me best—­I know that, Hubert.  My heart feels so strange; it seems to stop, and then to beat slowly.  Lay your face on mine, darling.”

He did just as she requested, whispering sweet, solemn words of comfort; and then, beneath his own he felt her lips grow cold and still.  Presently he heard one long, deep-drawn sigh.  Some one raised the sweet head from his breast, and laid it back upon the pillow.  He knew she was dead.

He tried to bear it; he said to himself that he must be a man, that he had to live for his child’s sake.  He tried to rise, but the strength of his manhood failed him.  With a cry never forgotten by those who heard it, Lord Charlewood fell with his face on the ground.

Seven o’clock.  The full light of day was shining in the solemn chamber; the faint golden sunbeams touched the beautiful white face, so still and solemn in death; the white hands were folded, and lay motionless on the quiet heart.  Kindly hands had brushed back the golden-brown hair; some one had gathered purple chrysanthemums and laid them round the dead woman, so that she looked like a marble bride on a bed of flowers.  Death wore no stern aspect there; the agony and the torture, the dread and fear, were all forgotten; there was nothing but the sweet smile of one at perfect rest.

They had not darkened the room, after the usual ghostly fashion—­Stephen Letsom would not have it so—­but they had let in the fresh air and the sunshine, and had placed autumn flowers in the vases.  The baby had been carried away—­the kind-hearted nurse had charge of it.  Dr. Evans had gone home, haunted by the memory of the beautiful dead face.  The birds were singing in the morning sun; and Lord Charlewood, still crushed by his great grief, lay on the couch in the little sitting-room where he had spent so weary a night.

“I cannot believe it,” he said, “or, believing, cannot realize it.  Do you mean to tell me, doctor, that she who only yesterday sat smiling by my side, life of my life, soul of my soul, dearer to me than all the world, has gone from me, and that I shall see her no more?  I cannot, I will not believe it!  I shall hear her crying for me directly, or she will come smiling into the room.  Oh, Madaline, my wife, my wife!”

Stephen Letsom was too clever a man and too wise a doctor to make any endeavor to stem such a torrent of grief.  He knew that it must have its way.  He sat patiently listening, speaking when he thought a word would be useful; and Lord Charlewood never knew how much he owed to his kind, unwearied patience.