"Why so?" he asked. "Do you think I will leave the child?"
"Darling, the child is dead."
Awdrey tottered to his feet.
"Dead!" he cried. "You don't mean it—impossible." He bent over the little body, pulled down the bedclothes, and put his hand to the heart, then bending low he listened intently for any breath to come from the parted lips.
"Dead—no, no," he said again.
"My poor fellow, it is too true," said Dr. Rumsey.
"Then before God," began Awdrey—he stepped back, the words were arrested on his lips, and he fell fainting to the floor.
Dr. Rumsey had him removed to his own room, and with some difficulty the unhappy man was brought back to consciousness. He was now lying on his bed.
"Where am I?" he asked.
"In your room, on your bed. You are better now, dearest," said Margaret. She bent over him, trying valiantly to conceal her own anguish in order to comfort him.