He looked at her gloomily and turned away, the meaningless formula on his lips:
"While there is life there is hope."
"It will be little less than a miracle if she lives, though," the other added; "and the days of miracles are over. Hope if you like—but—"
"You had better not let him sit up to-night," said the first physician, looking compassionately at Charley; "he won't be able to stand it. He is worn out now, poor fellow, and looks fit for a sick-bed himself."
"He knows it is the crisis," Trixy answered; "he won't go."
"He has watched the last two nights," Miss Seton, interposed: "he must go, doctor; leave me an opiate—I will administer it. If—if the worst comes, it will be but a moment's work to arouse him."
The doctor obeyed.
"I will return at day dawn," he said, "if she be still alive. If not—send me word."
The twilight was falling. Solemn and shadowy it crept into the sombre, silent room. They went back to the bedside, pale and tearless; they had wept, it seemed, until they could weep no more. This last night the two girls were to watch alone.
She lay before them. Dead and in her shroud she would never look more awfully death-like than now. He sat beside her—ah, poor Charley! in a sort of dull stupor of misery, utterly worn out. The sharp pain seemed over—the long, dark watches, when his passionate prayers had ascended for that dear life, wild and rebellious it may be, when he had wrestled with an agony more bitter than death, had left their impress on his life forever. He could not let her go—he could not! "O God!" was the ceaseless cry of his soul, "have mercy—spare!"