"You are allowing a maudlin sentimentality to run away with your reason, Leslie," the woman answers, coldly. "Do you suppose I have lied to you? The girl has lived here since infancy. I knew her temper well, and I repeat that she was unbearable. I only endured her for her mother's sake. This is very sad. Of course, you feel badly over it. And yet, common sense whispers that this is a most fortunate thing for you. You are freed from a galling bond. Had she lived, she would almost inevitably have become a sorrow and a disgrace to you."
"We should not speak ill of the dead," he answers, a little sternly.
"Pardon me; I know there are some truths which we innately feel, but should not give expression to," she answers, with keen irony.
"Does Ivy know?" he asks her.
"Not yet; poor dear, I have been watching by her bedside all night. She is ill and almost heart-broken. I must go and break the news to her now."
She moves to the door, but, seeing him standing irresolute in the center of the floor, looks back over her shoulder to say, anxiously:
"Will you come away now, Leslie? The women would like to come in to prepare the body for the grave."
He shivers, and turns to follow her, casting one long, lingering look at the fair, immobile face upon the pillow.
"I did not know she was so beautiful," he murmurs to himself as he passes out.
"Have you no message to send Ivy?" Mrs. Cleveland asks him, as they pass along the hall. "She would be so glad of even one kind word from you."