'I was with her six hours--after I came she had no pain--it was quite peaceful, and--she died in the evening.' She had been watching him open-eyed, every vestige of colour fading from cheek and lip; when he stopped, she gave a little cry.

He let go her hand, and she sank into a chair near, so white and breathless that he was alarmed.
'Shall I get you water--shall I ring ?' he asked after a moment or two, bending over her.
'No,' she whispered with difficulty; 'let me alone--just for a minute.' He left her side, and stood leaning against the mantelpiece, waiting anxiously.

She struggled against the physical oppression which had seized upon her, and fought it down bravely.

But he noticed with a pang now that the flush was gone, that she looked fragile and worn, and, as his thought went back for a moment to the Surrey Sunday and her young rounded beauty among the spring green, he could have cried out in useless rebellion against the unyielding physical conditions which press upon and imprison the flame of life.
At last the faintness passed off, and she sat up, her hands clasped round her knees, and the tears running fast over her cheeks.

Her grief was like herself--frank, simple, expressive.
'Will you tell me more about it?
Oh, I cannot believe it! Why, only last week when I was ill she talked of coming to me! I have just been writing to her--there is my letter.