An hour passed—mother and child were still locked in a close embrace.
Doctor Browne came. He glanced at the two figures on the bed, and then looked eagerly at the nurse.
“I think they are both asleep sir,” said the latter.
“How long have they been so?”
“For nearly an hour.”
“Please remove the child? Mrs. Deacon.”
The nurse drew the little thing from off her mother.
“One is asleep,” said the doctor in a solemn voice, which seemed to go through the heart of Richard Ashbrook, who had followed the doctor into the room.
“But it is the sleep of death.”
Farmer Ashbrook uttered a terrible cry. He fell into a chair, and burst into an agony of grief, which was dreadful to behold.