"Where is he?" and his face of agony and consternation told all.
He had been sent for, and she knew why.
"Oh! no, no, they don't think he will die," cried Isabel passionately, throwing herself into Philip's arms; "they don't think he will die! O my darling! my baby! my beautiful boy!" And she rushed into the next room.
Her grief was terrible to witness, and Philip had to command himself.
"He has changed a good deal since daylight," said Mrs. Reilly, looking up at Philip; but she was sorry she had looked, and hastily turned her eyes again upon the child.
Presently Mrs. Hartland came in, and insisted that Philip should go down and have some breakfast, and he felt bound to obey.
Isabel was stunned. It had never entered her head that he could die; he was so strong and bright and beautiful, and he was hers. She threw herself helplessly upon the couch, and cared for nothing. By and by she remembered that now she could see him for a little while, but that soon she could see him no more, and she rose and went into the room.
George and Philip were both there. The quiet little form lay sweetly, as in sleep, upon the white counterpane of Fanny's cot. Death had only beautified him. The tiny waxen hands clasped upon the breast, almost as white as the white rosebud they enfolded, the smile of beatitude upon the face, the beautiful forehead, the closed eyes with their long lashes—no pain, no sorrow, the ineffable peace there, contrasting with the tumult of agony in her own soul, brought the tears to Belle's eyes.
George could not help thinking of his own little brother, just about as old, whom, years ago, he had seen lying in the same way in that very room, upon whose head the baptismal water had never fallen; and he thought Isabel very happy.
And thus was laid away, till the morning of the resurrection, the fair casket which had enclosed, for so short a time, a beautiful soul.