Hers was one of those peculiar organizations in which, from some cause but dimly conjectured as yet, the blood once set flowing will flow on to death, and even the tiniest wound is hard to stanch.

Was the lovely creature gone?
In her wrists could discern no pulse.

He folded back the bed-clothes, and laid his ear to her heart.

His whole soul listened.
Yes; there was certainly the faintest flutter.

He watched a moment: yes; he could see just the faintest tremor of the diaphragm.
"Run," he cried, "-- for God's sake run and bring me a jug of hot water, and two or three basins.