at his dumb despair, began to whisper some
common-place form of consolation; the sense
did not reach him, but the sound brought him
to the consciousness that she was present, and
he signed to her to leave the room. Reluctantly
she obeyed, and, as the door closed upon
her, Philip Denbigh's self-control was lost in
overpowering agony; he sank on his knees,
and buried his face on the bed with a bitter
groan.

Elsie's extreme exhaustion had probably made
her appear more dead than she really was to
the outer world, for she stirred at the sound,
and he saw the ashy lips quiver, and a
fluttering consciousness dawn on the white face;
then she opened her eyes, and looked at him:
first with a blank vacant gaze, then something
of the old beaming look which always welcomed
him; then with an expression of overpowering
horror, as she feebly turned her head
and tried to hide her face in the pillow. All
he saw at that moment was, that there was life
in the movement, and he bent over her, holding
to her lips a spoonful of some cordial that stood
near the bed. But she would not move to
take it, and as he implored her to do so in
passionate caressing words, the sick horror in
her face deepened, and she gasped, feebly:

"I can't; I am dying. Thank God!" Then,
collecting all her strength, she looked full at
him, steadily arid fixedly, until his eyes dropped,
and his head sank under her gaze. In a stronger
voice, and with unnatural calmness, she asked,
"Philip, did you kill him?"

Her husband scarcely started at the words;
it seemed to him that he had acted the whole
scene already, and knew beforehand what she
was going to say. In that stupendous moment
he felt that he could no more lie to his dying
wife than he could form his lips to tell her the
dreadful truth. Again he sank on his knees
and hid his face.

"Oh, my poor Herbert—my poor, poor
Herbert!"

He could not endure that her last thought
should turn to the man who had been his rival,
and whom he hated because he had injured
him.

"Elsie!" he broke out, in a smothered voice
of passionate emotion, "it was done for you; I
have so loved you and now you hate me! Oh
God! I am punished—I lose you—in this world
—I lose you in the next!"

"No, no," she cried. And her hand
wandered to her forehead, as if she were trying to
seize some idea that was escaping her. "I
can't say it; the words won't come. God
can forgive everything—everything—even
that——"

Obeying his wild unreasoning impulse to
grasp his treasure and hold her back from the
destroying angel, Philip bent over her, and threw
his arms about her, longing unutterably to win
from her one look, one kiss, such as she had
used to give him- such as could never, never
more be his whether she lived or died. As he
took her cold hand it drew shiveringly back;
she shrunk into herself to escape the clasp of
his arms; and, with a last effort, turned away
to avoid the touch of his lips.

Mr. Scott and the Briswick physician arrived.
After their first sorrowful greeting to Mr.Denbigh,
they began to talk in whispers, appealing
now and then to the husband as to a brother
doctor; but he stared at them with a vacant
expression, and soon sat down, like a man
stunned, on the sofa at the foot of the bed, laid
his arms on the table before him, and buried
his face. The medical men could only stand
and look on mournfully, feeling their
powerlessness to help her, and deeply touched by
the sight of the fair young dying face. Sounds
of village life now and then came in through
the opened window; once old Isott crept in
with her tear-stained face and took her
station by the bedside. Still the husband never
moved. His whole soul was absorbed in two
ideas, each full of overwhelming agony—that
his wife was dying—and that her last
conscious act had been to turn away from him
with horror.

He knew, sooner than any of the other
watchers when the faint breathing ceased; but,
though his heart gave a bound as the awful
stillness sank over the room, he did not stir
until a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and
it was whispered to him that all was ended.
Then he rose, and, with staggering steps, went
to the bedside, and stood leaning against the
wall, unable to support himself. Presently he
became aware that the attendants had left him
alone with the dead; and then, and not till
then, as he threw himself upon her, there broke
from him, with an exceeding bitter cry, the
words:

"My God! my God! Have I sold my soul for
this!"

An hour later, when the last sad arrangements
had been made, and the darkened room
had acquired that chill stiff neatness which is
one of the accompaniments of death, the nurse
and Isott were surprised to see him come in.
There was that in his face which sent the scared
women out of the room, appalled at the sight
of his anguish. He stood motionless for some
minutes, looking fixedly down on the cold
white face which had lately been so beaming
with happiness, which had been so lovely,
and so dearly loved, and to which death was
already restoring its usual calm and sweet
expression.

Presently he spoke, bending over her as if she
could still hear him.

"Elsie, I loved you too dearly. I have
risked my soul for you: my love has been your
curse and your death. But if you can hear
me now, you shall know that I love you
more dearly than ever. You are mine, mine
only, and mine you shall be for eternity as well
as for time; and if all you have believed is
true, and if God can forgive, and if disgrace,
and agony, and death, can expiate crime, I will
meet you again, Elsie. And when we meet
again, you will not turn from me as you did