"It is over. She is the mother of a little girl."
There was no expression of parental joy or thankfulness on the father's part. Only the breathless question:
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE GREAT VALLEY STORM.
| "Then hurtles forth the wind with sudden burst, |
| And hurls the whole precipitated clouds |
| Down in a torrent. On the sleeping vale |
| Descends infernal force, and with strong gust |
| Turns from the bottom the discolored streams |
| Through the black night that broods immense around, |
| Lashed into foam, the fierce contending falls |
| Swift o'er a thousand rearing rocks do race." |
"Can she survive?" repeated Lyon Berners, perceiving that the physician hesitated to reply. "If she must die, do not fear to tell me so. I, who love her best, would say, 'Thank God!' Can she survive?"
"Mr. Berners, I do not know. Her situation is very critical. She has had convulsions. She is now prostrated and comatose," gravely answered the doctor.
"Then there is good hope that the Angel of Death may take her home now?"