Kindly hands had brushed back the golden-brown hair; some one had gathered purple chrysanthemums and laid them round the dead woman, so that she looked like a marble bride on a bed of flowers.

Death wore no stern aspect there; the agony and the torture, the dread and fear, were all forgotten; there was nothing but the sweet smile of one at perfect rest.
They had not darkened the room, after the usual ghostly fashion--Stephen Letsom would not have it so--but they had let in the fresh air and the sunshine, and had placed autumn flowers in the vases.

The baby had been carried away--the kind-hearted nurse had charge of it.

Dr.Evans had gone home, haunted by the memory of the beautiful dead face.

The birds were singing in the morning sun; and Lord Charlewood, still crushed by his great grief, lay on the couch in the little sitting-room where he had spent so weary a night.
"I cannot believe it," he said, "or, believing, cannot realize it.