“I think there was some misunderstanding between them before her illness.  Why do you ask?”

“Because I have observed for the last five or six hours—­since, I fancy, she has lost all hope of recovery—­there seems a strange prompting in her to say something which pain and failing strength forbid her to utter; and there is a look of hideous meaning in her eyes, which she turns continually towards her mistress.  In this disease the mind often remains singularly clear to the last.”

“I am not surprised at an indication of malevolent feeling in her,” I said.  “She is a woman who has always inspired me with distrust and dislike, but she managed to insinuate herself into her mistress’s favour.”  He was silent after this, looking at the fire with an air of absorption, till he went upstairs again.  He stayed away longer than usual, and on returning, said to me quietly, “Come now.”

I followed him to the chamber where death was hovering.  The dark hangings of the large bed made a background that gave a strong relief to Bertha’s pale face as I entered.  She started forward as she saw me enter, and then looked at Meunier with an expression of angry inquiry; but he lifted up his hand as it to impose silence, while he fixed his glance on the dying woman and felt her pulse.  The face was pinched and ghastly, a cold perspiration was on the forehead, and the eyelids were lowered so as to conceal the large dark eyes.  After a minute or two, Meunier walked round to the other side of the bed where Bertha stood, and with his usual air of gentle politeness towards her begged her to leave the patient under our care—­everything should be done for her—­she was no longer in a state to be conscious of an affectionate presence.  Bertha was hesitating, apparently almost willing to believe his assurance and to comply.  She looked round at the ghastly dying face, as if to read the confirmation of that assurance, when for a moment the lowered eyelids were raised again, and it seemed as if the eyes were looking towards Bertha, but blankly.  A shudder passed through Bertha’s frame, and she returned to her station near the pillow, tacitly implying that she would not leave the room.

The eyelids were lifted no more.  Once I looked at Bertha as she watched the face of the dying one.  She wore a rich peignoir, and her blond hair was half covered by a lace cap:  in her attire she was, as always, an elegant woman, fit to figure in a picture of modern aristocratic life:  but I asked myself how that face of hers could ever have seemed to me the face of a woman born of woman, with memories of childhood, capable of pain, needing to be fondled?  The features at that moment seemed so preternaturally sharp, the eyes were so hard and eager—­she looked like a cruel immortal, finding her spiritual feast in the agonies of a dying race.  For across those hard features there came something like a flash when the last hour had been