“He has passed mortal aid,” he said, then left them to their sorrow. Two hours passed by. Sadly and silently that group sat beside the bed and watched the spark of life die away. The crimson spots faded slowly from the pale face, giving place to a marble whiteness, and peacefully the sufferer slept the sleep that knows no waking.
Irene entered stealthily, her satin slippers and creamy 127 robes soiled and wet with dew. She tried to appear as though she had no knowledge of the affair, and nearing Scott, she looked on the face of the dead.
“Oh, papa; poor dear papa,” she screamed. “Is he dead? Can’t you speak to me?”
“Hush,” said Scott, in a low, commanding voice. “He left you his blessing. You were sent for, but did not see fit to come. Do not add insult to injury.”
“Oh, is he dead?” she asked again.
“Father, dear father,” said Scott, bending down. “Can it be—oh, mother—June, he is dead.”
And Scott, with voiceless lips and tearless eyes, bowed his head in deepest agony.