As he turned to his writing, he did not see Edith kiss the letter, and put it in her bosom.
"Dear, sweet girlie," she thought tenderly, "I certainly will love to have you now."
When Edith had fallen unconscious in George's arms, the curtain fell upon the first act of her young life—an act untouched by any real agony of living. But just before the curtain fell, the clouds had gathered ominously, and warned her of the storms to come. The blessedness of her unconscious state lasted a long time. For two weeks she hovered between life and death.
Howard, upon his return, was filled with horror. He was more than grateful that George had not left her side one moment of that first day, or night. He begged him to take the case.
George with an absorbing intensity, studied her slightest symptom. His was the passionate desire to save her life. He succeeded, but the shock had destroyed all hopes of motherhood.
The anxiety of Edith's illness, together with Mrs. Esterbrook's death, brought several spells of heart trouble on Mr. Esterbrook. One week from the time his wife was buried, he succumbed to heart failure, and was laid to rest.
George forbade the slightest mention of it to be made to Edith. As she slowly returned to consciousness, he wondered how to prepare her for the awful revelation of her bereavement.
When he spoke of it to Howard, he learned the weak nature of one who was Edith's ideal.
"Really, Cadman, I can't possibly tell her. You are a doctor, you know best how to do those things. Won't you relieve me of this trying ordeal? I'm sure to make a blunder of it."
George concealed his surprise, and calmly acquiesced.