The day began; the sun was up; once more the old house awoke to life and activity.
Sitting in his chamber, Grantley Mellen heard the familiar sounds below; he knew that life must sweep on again, that he must rise once more and go forth among his fellow-men, hiding his misery as best he might, taking his place in the world and bearing the secret burden of his dishonored life. He went to the window, swept back the curtains which he had drawn over it, and looked at himself in the glass. If he had wished to know how his corpse would look after the ravages of time and disease, he could have learned it in that prolonged gaze.
It was absolutely the face of a dead man; even the eyes looked lifeless—there was only a heavy, stony expression, which had neither spirit or humanity in it.
It was late in the morning when Elsie awoke from the heavy slumber which had succeeded her swoon. For a few moments she lay still, believing that the events of the past night had been only a dream. Suddenly she raised herself with a cry of anguish—she had caught sight of the shawl which Elizabeth had wrapped about her—she knew that it was all real.
She sprang out of bed, opened the door, ran through the empty chamber and entered her sister's room:
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"
There was no answer. She looked about—the fire had died down in the grate, the room was empty and desolate as a grave.
She hurried through into the sleeping apartment, calling still in a voice which frightened herself:
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"
The bed-chamber was empty too—the bed untouched.