He would not let me send before, Helen; and I knew you would not come unless I said, 'John sends for you.'" "No," she answered.

He told her, in their quick ride to the parsonage, that this had been the third hemorrhage, and John had not rallied; but it was not until the night before that he had known the end was inevitable and near, and had sent for his wife.
Oh, the strangeness of those village streets! Had she ever been away?
These months in Ashurst were a dream; here only was reality and death.
Alfaretta could not speak as she met them at the gate, but ran by Helen's side, and furtively kissed her hand.

There was a light burning in the study, but Helen stood at the table in the hall and took off her bonnet and cloak.
"I will go and tell him you are here," Gifford said, trying to detain her as she turned to go up-stairs.
"He knows," she said calmly, and left Gifford and the servant standing in the entry.
She did not even pause at the door; there seemed no need to gather strength for the shock of that meeting; she was all strength and love.
The room was lighted only by the fire, and the bed was in shadow.
There were no words; those empty, dying arms were stretched out to her, and she gathered him close to her heart.
The house was strangely silent.

Again and again Gifford crept up to the door, but all was quite still; once he heard that soft sound which a mother makes when she soothes her baby on her breast, and again a low murmur, which died away as though even words were an intrusion.
All that long winter day, Gifford, in his intense anxiety lest Helen should not come in time, and his distress for the sorrow of this little household, had been calmed and comforted by John's serene courage.

He knew that death was near, but there was an exultant look in his fading eyes, and sometimes his lips moved in grateful prayer.