Mildred was bathing her mother's head and trying to comfort her when the door opened, and a haggard, unkempt man stood before them. For a second they looked at him in vague terror, for he stood in a deep shadow, and then Mrs. Jocelyn cried, "Martin! Martin!" and tears came to her relief at last.
He approached slowly and tremblingly. Mildred was about to throw herself into his arms, but he pushed her away. His manner began to fill them with a vague, horrible dread, for he acted like a spectre of a man.
"Where are the children?" he asked hoarsely.
"We have sent them to the country. Oh, papa, do be kind and natural—you will kill mamma."
"There is crape on the door-knob," he faltered. "Where's Belle?"
"Oh, oh, oh!" sobbed Mildred, "Papa, papa, have mercy on us. Can't you sustain and help us at such a time as this?"
"She is dead, then," he whispered, and he sank into a chair as if struck down.
"Yes, she's dead. You were the first one she asked for when she came out of her fever."
"Great God! my punishment is greater than I can bear," he groaned.
"Oh, Martin," pleaded his wife, "come to me," and too weak to rise from her couch she held out her arms to him.