nse of well-being, of rejoicing
in the summer day. Then as he stepped into the house he became conscious
that Rachel was standing in the hall waiting for him, with an expression
of dread anxiety on her face. The transition of feeling was so sudden
that for a moment he hardly realised what he saw--then quick as
lightning his thoughts flew to meet that one misfortune that of all
others would assail them both most cruelly.

"Rachel!" he said. "Is your mother ill?"

"Yes," the girl answered. "Oh, father, wait," she said, as Sir William
was rushing past her, and she tried to steady her quivering lips. "Dr.
Morgan is there."

"Morgan--you sent for him...." said Gore, pausing, hardly knowing what
he was saying. "Rachel... tell me...?"

"She fainted," the girl said, "an hour ago. And we couldn't get her
round again. I sent--ah! there he is coming down." And a steady, slow
step, sounding to the two listeners like the footfall of Fate, was heard
coming down from above. Sir William went to meet the doctor, knowing
already what he was going to hear.

Lady Gore died that night, without regaining consciousness. Hers had
been the unspeakable privilege of leaving life swiftly and painlessly
without knowing that the moment had come. She had passed unconsciously
into that awful gulf, without having had to stand for a moment
shuddering on the brink. She had never dreaded death itself, but she had
dreaded intensely the thought of old age, of a lingering illness and its
attendant horrors. But none of these she had been called upon to endure:
even while those around her were looking at the beautiful aspect of life
that she presented to them the darkness fell, leaving them the memory
only of that bright image. Her daughter's last recollection of her had
been the caressing endearment with which Lady Gore had deprecated
Rachel's remaining with her till Sir William's return--how thankful the
girl was to have remained!--her husband's last vision of her, the
smiling farewell with which she had sped him on his way in the morning,
with a caution as to prudence in his undertakings. As he came back he
had found himself telling her already in his mind, before he was
actually in her presence, of what he had done. That was the thing which
gave an edge to every action, to each fresh development of existence.
Life was lived through again for her, and acquired a fresh aspect from
her interest and sympathy, from her keen, humorous insight and
far-seein