Even he--the doctor--accustomed to scenes of sorrow and desolation was startled by the cry of pain that came from the young man's lips.
Chapter II.
Five o'clock! The chimes had played the hour, the church clock had struck; the laborers were going to the fields, the dairy-maids were beginning their work; the sky had grown clear and blue, the long night of agony was over. The Angel of Death had spread his wings over the doctor's house, and awaited only the moment when his sword should fall.
Inside, the scene had hardly changed. The light of the lamp seemed to have grown so ghostly that the nurse had turned it out, and, drawing the blinds, let the faint morning light come in. It fell on the beautiful face that had grown even whiter in the presence of death. Lady Charlewood was dying; yet the feeble arms held the little child tightly. She looked up as her husband entered the room. He had combated by a strong effort all outward manifestations of despair.
"Hubert," whispered the sweet, faint voice, "see, this is our little daughter."
He bent down, but he could not see the child for the tears that filled his eyes.
"Our little daughter," she repeated; "and they say, Hubert, that I have given my life for hers. Is it true?"
He looked at the two doctors; he looked at the white face bearing the solemn, serene impress of death. It would be cruel to deceive her now, when the hands that caressed the little child were already growing colder.
"Is it true, Hubert?" she repeated, a clear light shining in her dying eyes.
"Yes, my darling, it is true," he said, in a low voice.