But now, since that purpose was gained, the false strength which had sustained her so long gave way utterly. Her weary frame was at last extended upon a bed from which she would no longer be compelled to rise for the watch and the march and the vigil. Her labor was over. Now came the reaction. Rapidly she yielded. It seemed as though joy had killed her. Not so. A great purpose had given her a fictitious strength; and now, when the purpose was accomplished, the strength departed, and a weakness set in commensurate with the strength--the weakness of approaching dissolution.
She herself knew that all was over. She would not have it otherwise. She was glad that it was so. It was with her now a time to chant a _nunc dimittis_--welcome death! Life had nothing more to offer.
Once again Zillah stood at her bedside, constant and loved and loving. But there was one whose presence inspired a deeper joy, for whom her dying eyes watched--dying eyes wistful in their watch for him. How she had watched during the past months! How those eyes had strained themselves through the throngs of passers-by at Florence, while, day by day, the light of hope grew dimmer! Now they waited for his coming, and his approach never failed to bring to them the kindling light of perfect joy.
Lord Chetwynde himself was true to that fond affection which he had always expressed for her and shown. He showed himself eager to give up all pleasures and all recreations for the sake of being by her bedside.
[Illustration: "My Boy, Have You Ever Heard About Your Mother?">[
On this Obed Chute used to look with eyes that sometimes glistened with manly tears.
Days passed on, and Mrs. Hart grew weaker. It was possible to count the hours that remained for mortal life. A strange desolation arose in Lord Chetwynde's heart as the prospect of her end lowered before him.
One day Mrs. Hart was alone with him. Obed Chute had called away Zillah for some purpose or other. Before doing so he had whispered something to the dying woman. As they left she held out her hand to Lord Chetwynde.
"Come here and sit nearer," she wailed forth--"nearer; take my hand, and listen."