t
she thinks her senses are about to desert her.

As she reaches the side of the bed opposite to where Letitia crouches,
she compels herself to look, and for the moment sustains a passionate
feeling of relief, as the white sheet that covers all alone meets her
gaze.

And yet not all. A second later, and a dread more awful than the first
overpowers her, for there, beneath the fair, pure linen shroud, the
features are clearly marked, the form can be traced; she can assure
herself of the shape of the head,--the nose,--the hands folded so
quietly, so obediently, in their last eternal sleep upon the cold
breast. But no faintest breathing stirs them. He is dead!

Her eyes grow to this fearful thing. To steady herself she lays her
hand upon the back of a chair. Not for all the world contains would she
lean upon that bed, lest by any chance she should disturb the quiet
sleeper. The other hand she puts out in trembling silence to raise a
corner of the sheet.

"I _cannot_," she groans aloud, withdrawing her fingers
shudderingly. But no one heeds. Three times she essays to throw back
the covering, to gaze upon her dead, and fails; and then at last the
deed is accomplished, and Death in all its silent majesty lies smiling
before her.

Is it John? Yes, it is, of course. And yet--_is it_? Oh, the
changeless sweetness of the smile,--the terrible shading,--the moveless
serenity!

Spell-bound, heart-broken, she gazes at him for a minute, and then
hastily, though with the tenderest reverence, she hides away his face.
A heavy, bursting sigh escapes her; she raises her head, and becomes
conscious that Letitia is upon her knees and is staring at her fixedly
across the bed.

There is about her an expression that is almost wild in its surprise
and horror.

"_You_ do not cry either," says she, in a clear, intense whisper.
"I thought I was the only thing on earth so unnatural. I have not wept.
I have not lost my senses. I can still think. I have lost my all,--my
husband,--John!--and yet I have not shed one single tear. And you,
Molly,--he loved you so dearly, and I fancied you loved him too,--and
still you are as cold, as poor a creature as myself."

There is no reply. Molly is regarding her speechlessly. In truth, she
is dumb from sheer misery and the remembrance of what she has just
seen. Are Letitia's words true? _Is_ she heartless?

There is a long silence,--how long neither of them ever knows,--and
then something happens tha