"His head is growing heavier. See how he leans on me! Of course, he knows—only—only—Oh, Walton! There is no breath!" whispered the poor girl. "What can I do—what can I do?"
"Ruth, my poor child, I fear he will never breathe again."
"Never breathe again! Never breathe again! Why, that is death!"
"Yes, Ruth, it is death," answered the young man, folding the dressing-gown over the body, reverently, as if it had been the vestment of some old Roman.
"Then you and I have killed him," said the girl, in a hoarse whisper. "You and I!"
The young man made no answer, but kindly and gently attempted to remove the body that rested so heavily upon her.
"Not yet—oh, not yet! I cannot give him up! He might live long enough to pardon me."
"If good men live hereafter, and you believe that, Ruth, he knows that concealment is all the sin you have committed against him," answered Hurst, gently.
"But that has brought my poor—poor father here," said the girl, looking piteously up into the young man's face.
"Ruth—Ruth, do not reproach me! God knows I blame myself bitterly enough," he said, at last.