She was swaying, her hands reaching out gropingly, her face the gray of ash that crumbles from an ember.

Adare sprung to meet her, a strange cry on his lips, and Philip was a step behind her.
He heard her moaning words, and as he rushed past them into the hall he knew that she had fallen fainting into her husband's arms.
In the doorway to Josephine's room he paused.

She was there, kneeling beside the little cradle, and her face as she lifted it to him was tearless, but filled with a grief that went to the quick of his soul.
He did not need to look into the cradle as she rose unsteadily, clutching a hand at her heart, as if to keep it from breaking.

He knew what he would see.

And now he went to her and drew her close in his strong arms, whispering the pent-up passion of the things that were in his heart, until at last her arms stole up about his neck, and she sobbed on his breast like a child.