The dawn brightened.  Gradually, as the fair light of the new day flowed in lovely upon her bed; as the fresh morning breeze lifted tenderly and playfully the scattered locks of her hair that lay over the pillow—­so, the calmness began to come back to her voice and the stillness of repose to her limbs.  But she never turned her face to me again; never, when the wild words of her despair grew fewer and fainter; never, when the last faint supplication to me, to leave her to die forsaken as she deserved, ended mournfully in a long, moaning gasp for breath.  I waited after this—­waited a long time—­then spoke to her softly—­then waited once more; hearing her still breathe, but slowly and more slowly with every minute—­then spoke to her for the second time, louder than before.  She never answered, and never moved.  Was she sleeping?  I could not tell.  Some influence seemed to hold me back from going to the other side of the bed, to look at her face, as it lay away from me, almost hidden in the pillow.

The light strengthened faster, and grew mellow with the clear beauty of the morning sunshine.  I heard the sound of rapid footsteps advancing along the street; they stopped under the window:  and a voice which I recognized, called me by my name.  I looked out:  Mr. Bernard had returned at last.

“I could not get back sooner,” he said; “the case was desperate, and I was afraid to leave it.  You will find a key on the chimney-piece—­throw it out to me, and I can let myself in; I told them not to bolt the door before I went out.”

I obeyed his directions.  When he entered the room, I thought Margaret moved a little, and signed to him with my hand to make no noise.  He looked towards the bed without any appearance of surprise, and asked me in a whisper when the change had come over her, and how.  I told him very briefly, and inquired whether he had known of such changes in other cases, like hers.

“Many,” he answered, “many changes just as extraordinary, which have raised hopes that I never knew realised.  Expect the worst from the change you have witnessed; it is a fatal sign.”

Still, in spite of what he said, it seemed as if he feared to wake her; for he spoke in his lowest tones, and walked very softly when he went close to the bedside.

He stopped suddenly, just as he was about to feel her pulse, and looked in the direction of the glass door—­listened attentively—­and said, as if to himself—­ “I thought I heard some one moving in that room, but I suppose I am mistaken; nobody can be up in the house yet.”  With those words he looked down at Margaret, and gently parted back her hair from her forehead.

“Don’t disturb her,” I whispered, “she is asleep; surely she is asleep!”

He paused before he answered me, and placed his hand on her heart.  Then softly drew up the bed-linen, till it hid her face.

“Yes, she is asleep,” he said gravely; “asleep, never to wake again.  She is dead.”