taggered over to a chair and tried to realise what he had heard,
but it was impossible, although his journey had seemed to him one long
preparation for the worst. 'What is it--how did it happen?' he asked.

'Internal chill. She was only taken ill the day before yesterday, and the
pain was frightful till yesterday afternoon; then it subsided, and I
thought she was better--she herself was so cheerful and so thankful for
the relief--but when the two doctors came in again, it was to tell me
that the disappearance of the pain meant only the worst--meant that
nothing more can be done--she may go at any moment.'

There was a silence. M. de Chateauvieux walked up and down with the
noiseless step which even a few hours of sickness develop in the watcher,
till he came and stood before his brother-in-law, saying in the same
painful whisper, 'You must have some food, then I will tell her you are
here.'

'No, no; I want no food,--any time will do for that. Does she expect me?'

'Yes; you won't wait? Then come.' He led the way across a little
anteroom, lifted a curtain, and knocked. The nurse came, there was a
little parley, and Paul went in, while Eustace waited outside, conscious
of the most strangely trivial things, of the passers-by in the street, of
a wrangle between two _gamins_ on the pavement opposite, of the
misplacement of certain volumes in the bookcase beside him, till the
door opened again, and M. de Chateauvieux drew him in.

He stepped over the threshold, his whole being wrought up to he knew not
what solemn pageant of death and parting, and the reality within startled
him. The room was flooded with morning light, a frosty December sun was
struggling through the fog, the curtains had just been drawn back, and
the wintry radiance rested on the polished brass of the bed, on the
bright surfaces of wood and glass with which the room was full, on the
little tray of tea-things which the nurse held, and on his sister's face
of greeting as she lay back smiling among her pillows. There was such a
cheerful home peace and brightness in the whole scene--in the crackling
wood fire, in the sparkle of the tea-things and the fragrance of the tea,
and in the fresh white surroundings of the invalid; it seemed to him
incredible that under all this familiar household detail there should be
lying in wait that last awful experience of death.

Marie kissed him with grateful affectionate words spoken almost in her
usual voice, and then,