But his wife knelt by the bed, still holding the wrinkled hands of the old woman, her face buried in her arms.

The face of his mother was quieter than he had ever seen it, the lines showed only like the faintest shadows on an alabaster mask; her lips were set in a smile.

He looked for a moment, waiting until the spasm that caught his throat had died again.

Then he put his hand on his wife's shoulder.
"When ?" he said.
Mabel lifted her face.
"Oh! Oliver," she murmured.

"It was an hour ago.