ing--nothing to fall back on--sudden collapse and
prostration--and that poor girl, called every way at once, fancied her
asleep, and took no alarm till I came in this morning and found her
pulse all but gone. We have been pouring down stimulants all day, but
there was no rousing her, and she was gone the first.'

'And Mr. Ward--did he know it?'

'I thought so from the way he looked at me; but speech had long been
lost, and that throat was dreadful suffering. Well, "In their death
they were not divided."'

He shaded his eyes with his hand; and Ethel, leaning against his chair,
could not hinder herself from a shudder at the longing those words
seemed to convey. He felt her movement, and put his arm round her,
saying, 'No, Ethel, do not think I envy them. I might have done so
once--I had not then learnt the meaning of the discipline of being
without her--no, nor what you could do for me, my child, my children.'

Ethel's thrill of bliss was so intense, that it gave her a sense of
selfishness in indulging personal joy at such a moment; and indeed it
was true that her father had over-lived the first pangs of change and
separation, had formed new and congenial habits, saw the future hope
before him; and since poor Margaret had been at rest, had been without
present anxiety, or the sight of decay and disappointment. Her only
answer was a mute smoothing of his bowed shoulders, as she said, 'If I
could be of any use or comfort to poor Averil Ward, I could go
to-night. Mary is enough for Aubrey.'

'Not now, my dear. She can't stir from the boy, they are giving him
champagne every ten minutes; she has the nurse, and Spencer is
backwards and forwards; I think they will pull him through, but it is a
near, a very near touch. Good, patient, unselfish boy he is too.'

'He always was a very nice boy,' said Ethel; 'I do hope he will get
well. It would be a terrible grief to Aubrey.'

'Yes, I got Leonard to open his lips to-day by telling him that Aubrey
had sent him the grapes. I think he will get through. I hope he will.
He is a good friend for Aubrey. So touching it was this morning to
hear him trying to ask pardon for all his faults, poor fellow--fits of
temper, and the like.'

'That is his fault, I believe,' said Ethel, 'and I always think it a
wholesome one, because it is so visible and unjustifiable, that people
strive against it. And the rest? Was Henry able to see his father or
mother?'

'No, he can scarcel