slowly; there is a
loneliness about suffering which makes the hours drag heavily. Once
she buried her face for a moment in the sofa cushions, and her bands
clenched the cover and crumpled the delicate satin between her fingers.
Her head sank lower, like a wounded bird that ruffles up the dust; she
moved convulsively amongst the cushions. It was a grim fight with pain
that she was making; she did not give in easily, but the odds were
unequal. Mrs. Ogilvie was in the hands of an unsparing foe. She was
conquered, but afterwards, when she lay quite still, there was a look
of defiance in her attitude.

Her maid, coming in and finding her sleeping, glanced at the blinds and
wondered if she dared lower them, for the sun was shining brilliantly
into the room now, and its beams were resting full and strong on the
figure on the sofa.

It was something about the position of the auburn head--something
twisted and unnatural in the attitude of the recumbent form--that
caused the woman to cry out suddenly and sharply, with a vibrating cry
that seemed to set everything in the room jingling. No one heard her
at first, and she opened the window and called aloud for help; for
there was a sound of horses' hoofs upon the gravel, and Peter rode up
with Jane to the door.

'Mrs. Ogilvie must have been dead an hour,' the village doctor said
when he came; and then he sent the weeping girl and poor, white-faced,
broken-hearted Peter out of the room. Neither of them could believe
the horrible news; they turned to each other, taking hands, as children
do in their grief, and Jane went back and with a sob stooped down and
imprinted a long kiss on the dead woman's brow.

'She must have died just as she was writing her morning letters,' said
Peter, as he glanced at the writing-table with its litter of notes and
papers.

'Perhaps it would be as well to lock up anything that is lying about,'
said the doctor; 'it is customary to do so. Or your lawyer--who, I
understand, is in the house--could come in, I suppose, and put away
jewels, etc.' He handed Peter the litter of notes and papers on the
writing-table.

'Thank you,' said Peter. 'I don't suppose there is anything very
important, but I will look through them presently.' He glanced at the
topmost addresses of the notes, and decided that they were probably
belated wedding invitations to people who had been forgotten, and he
put an indiarubber band about them and thrust them into his poc