many of us to feel, on whom the unwelcome task has devolved of bringing
the news of a death. How consciously helpless we were--was it not
so?--when the tale was told, and we had to leave the heart of our hearer
to its lonely struggle in the dark!

This that Gwen had told was not news of death, but news of life;
nevertheless, it might kill. She had little fear for the daughter or the
sister; much for this new-found object of her affection who had survived
so many troubles. For Gwen had to acknowledge that "old Mrs. Picture"
had acquired a mysteriously strong hold upon her--its strangeness lying
in its sudden development. She could, however, do nothing now to help
the old tempest-tossed bark into smooth water, that would not be done as
well or better by her equally storm-beaten consort, whose rigging and
spars had been in such much better trim than hers when the gale struck
both alike. Gwen felt, too, a great faith that the daughter's love would
be, as it were, the beacon of the mother's salvation; the pilot to a
sheltered haven where the seas would be at rest. She herself could do no
more.

After the old lady's consciousness returned, it was long before she
spoke, and Gwen had felt half afraid her speech might be gone. But
then--could she herself speak? Scarcely! And Ruth Thrale, the daughter,
seemed in like plight, sitting beside her mother on the bed, her usually
rosy cheeks gone ashy white, her eyes fixed on the old face before her
with a look that seemed to Gwen one of wonder even more than love. The
stress of the hour, surely! For all the tenderness of her heart was in
the hand that wandered caressingly about the mass of silver hair on the
pillow, and smoothed it away from the eyes that turned from the one to
the other half questioningly, but content without reply. The mother
seemed physically overwhelmed by the shock, and ready to accept absolute
collapse, if not indeed incapable of movement. She made no attempt to
speak till later.

During the hour or half-hour that followed, Gwen and Ruth Thrale spoke
but once or twice, beneath their breath. Neither could have said why.
Who can say why the dwellers in a house where Death is pending speak in
undertones? Not from fear of disturbance to the dying man, whose sight
and hearing are waning fast. This was a silence of a like sort, though
it was rather resurrection than death that imposed it.

The great clock in the kitchen, which had struck twelve when Gwen was
showi