Mrs. Law died suddenly.
The doctors sent for Law and he got there in time.
"She may, toward the end," they told him, "have a gleam of consciousness. Such things do happen. You would want to be with her."
"Yes, in any case," Law replied and he took his place by the bed. In his heart was that cold fear which many know in the presence of death.
The long afternoon hours drifted by. The face on the pillow, so tragically young because it did not show the tracings of experience, scarcely moved. Toward evening Law went to the west window to raise the shade, there was a particularly splendid sky. When he came back he saw that a change had come; the change, but instead of blotting out expression in his wife's eyes, it was giving expression, meaning, to what had been, for so long, vacuous. Law wanted to call for help, but instead he sank limply into the chair and took the hand that was groping toward his.
"I'm glad you're here——" said the strained, hoarse voice.
"I am glad, too, Helen."
For years Law had not addressed his wife by name. That would have seemed sacrilege.
"Have you been here all the time?"
"Yes, dear."