Shutters and curtains and the fireless grate gave the room an appalling
likeness to the vaults.

So like to the home of death it seemed, that in a few minutes the
watcher had lost count of time and kept but a wormy memory of the
daylight. She dared not speak, for some fear of startling; for the worse
fear of never getting answer. Tony's hand was lifeless. Her clasp of it
struck no warmth.

She stung herself with bitter reproaches for having let common mundane
sentiments, worthy of a Lady Wathin, bar her instant offer of her bosom
to the beloved who suffered in this depth of mortal agony. Tony's love
of a man, as she should have known, would be wrought of the elements of
our being: when other women named Happiness, she said Life; in division,
Death. Her body lying still upon the bed here was a soul borne onward by
the river of Death.

The darkness gave sight after a while, like a curtain lifting on a
veil: the dead light of the underworld. Tony lay with her face up, her
underlip dropped; straight from head to feet. The outline of her face,
without hue of it, could be seen: sign of the hapless women that have
souls in love. Hateful love of men! Emma thought, and was; moved to feel
at the wrist for her darling's pulse. He has, killed her! the thought
flashed, as, with pangs chilling her frame, the pressure at the wrist
continued insensible of the faintest beat. She clasped it, trembling, in
pain to stop an outcry.

'It is Emmy,' said the voice.

Emma's heart sprang to heaven on a rush of thanks.

'My Tony,' she breathed softly.

She hung for a further proof of life in the motionless body. 'Tony!' she
said.

The answer was at her hand, a thread-like return of her clasp.

'It is Emmy come to stay with you, never to leave you.'

The thin still answer was at her hand a moment; the fingers fell away. A
deep breath was taken twice to say:

'Don't talk to me.'

Emma retained the hand. She was warned not to press it by the deadness
following its effort to reply.

But Tony lived; she had given proof of life. Over this little wavering
taper in the vaults Emma cowered, cherishing the hand, silently hoping
for the voice.

It came: 'Winter.'

'It is a cold winter, Tony.'

'My dear will be cold.'

'I will light the fire.'

Emma lost no time in deciding to seek the match-box. The fire was lit
and it flamed; it seemed a revival in the room. Coming back to the
bedside, she discerned her Tony's lacklustre large d