"Before she is buried, you would say? I understand," said Sister Anne, sympathetically. "Poor child! I thought she hadn't a friend in the world. It seems I was mistaken. Will you follow me?"
She took him through a labyrinth of streets, and paused before a ramshackle old house which had seen and withstood the storms of more than one revolution.
"You would like to be alone with the dead?" asked the Sister.
"If Madame will grant me that favour."
She rang the bell, whispered to the drowsy old concierge, and, with a Benedicite, was gone. The concierge conducted him up the staircase, pointed to a door, gave him a lighted candle, and descended.
Jack opened the door, and as he did so a gust of wind blew out his light and left him in darkness. He had just time, however, to see the white-shrouded figure stretched on the bed in the corner. He approached it reverently, and stood by the side of the shroud, with thoughts which choked themselves for utterance.
"Poor, poor Minnie! This, then, is the finish!"
What was that? His moan, he thought, was echoed by another. He quickly put the thought from him.
He put his hand gently forward to feel the face of the dead woman, and in doing so it rested upon something warm, palpable. He could almost have shrieked, the transition of feeling was so great—between the ice-cold rigour he had anticipated, and the warmth of animate life. What could it mean?
He had no time for conjecture, for the hand which he had extended to the face of the dead was clasped by another hand—the hand of the living.