She made a faint movement with her hand towards him, and he resumed his old place, his head bowed upon the bed.

And so they sat through the morning, hardly moving, interchanging at long intervals a few words--those sad sacred words which well from the heart in the supreme moments of existence--words which, in the case of such natures as Marie de Chateauvieux, represent the intimate truths and fundamental ideas of the life that has gone before.

There was nothing to hide, nothing to regret.

A few kindly messages, a few womanly commissions, and every now and then a few words to her husband, as simple as the rest, but pregnant with the deepest thoughts and touching the vastest problems of humanity,--this was all.

Marie was dying as she had lived--bravely, tenderly, simply.
Presently they roused her to take some nourishment, which she swallowed with difficulty.