"Come—Fanny—don't—take—on—so,—it's—no—fault—of—your'n," observed her husband, sobbing between each word; but the poor creature did not hear his well-meant words of comfort, she having swooned from grief.
After in vain trying to restore Clare to consciousness, Thompson ran for a doctor, and when he returned with one, they found the room filled with neighbours.
"Turn these people out," directed the physician.
In a short time the gossips retired, taking with them the grief-stricken old woman, who, in spite of their endeavours to comfort her, blamed herself as the cause of Clare's sudden death.
While Thompson was clearing the apartment the doctor proceeded to examine Clare, who had been placed upon a sofa; and when the kindly sailor had seen the last person out, he hurried to his friend's side.
"The poor man is dead," sadly observed the doctor.
"Ain't there no chance for him, sir?"
"No, none whatever. Is this the husband of Mary Clare?"
"Yes, your honour."
"Where is the child?"