She approached the sofa now, but her steps dragged themselves as she went up to it and bent down over her husband and called his name.
"George!" she said. "George!" He never moved. She went a little nearer, calling him louder.
"George, George, wake up!" she said. "Wake, George, you've slept for over four hours. Supper is ready, George—cocoa and eggs, your favorite supper. Wake! George, wake!"
The dog howled by the fire.
"Rover, I'll turn you out if you make that noise again," said Hetty. She went on her knees now by the sleeping man, and shook him. His head moved when she did so and she thought he was about to open his eyes, but when she took her hands away there was not a motion, not a sound.
"What is it?" she said to herself. For the first time a very perceptible fear crept into her heart. She bent low and listened for the breathing.
"He do breathe gentle," she murmured. "I can scarcely hear; do I hear at all. I think I'll fetch a candle."
In shaking the farmer she had managed to dislodge one of his hands, which had fallen forward over the edge of the settle. She took it up, then she let it fall with a slight scream; it was cold, icy cold!
"Good God! Oh, God in heaven! what is it?" muttered the wife.
The real significance of the thing had not yet flashed upon her bewildered brain, but a sick fear was creeping over her. She went for the candle, and bringing it back, held it close to the ashen face. It was not only white, it was gray. The lips were faintly open, but not a breath proceeded from them. The figure was already stiff in the icy embrace of death.