I rang and sent off for a
doctor instantly, and while waiting for him did all that was possible to
revive her, but without effect. When the doctor came and examined her
condition he pronounced her quite dead."

"This must have occurred four or five hours ago. Why was I not sent
for?"

"You were sent for immediately. Messengers were dispatched in every
direction. But you could nowhere be found. They did not, indeed, know
where to look for you."

"Now close the window again, and then go and leave me alone; and do not
let any one disturb me on any account," said the old man, who had not
once moved from the bedside, or even lifted his gaze from the face of
the dead.

"I have telegraphed to North End for Uncle Fabian and Clarence, also to
West Point for Sylvanus. Sylvan cannot reach here before to-morrow, but
my uncles will be here this evening. Shall I send you word when they
arrive?"

"No. Let no one come to me to-night."

"Shall I send you up anything, grandfather?"

"No, no. If I require anything I will ring for it. Go now, Cora, and
leave me to myself."

The girl went away, closing the door behind her. As she descended the
stairs she heard the key turned, and knew that her grandfather had so
shut out all intruders.

He who had come home hungry and furious as a famished wolf never
appeared at the dinner that he had so peremptorily ordered to be served
at once, but shut himself up fasting with his dead. If his eyes were now
opened to see how much he had made her suffer through his selfishness,
cruelty, and despotism all her married life--if his late remorse
awoke--if he grieved for her--no one ever knew it. He never gave
expression to it.

CHAPTER VIII.

"THE PEACE OF GOD WHICH PASSETH ALL UNDERSTANDING."

In the late dawn of that dark winter day Mr. Clarence came down into the
parlor, and found Cora still there, with one gas jet burning low.

"Up so early, my dear child?" he said, as he took her hand and gave her
the good morning kiss.

"I have not been in bed," she replied.

"Not in bed all night! That was wrong. How cold your hands are? Go to
bed now, dear."

"I cannot. I do not wish to."

"My poor, doubly bereaved child, how much I feel for you!" he said, in a
tender tone, and still holding her hand.

"Do not mind me, Uncle Clarence. I do not feel for myself. I am numb. I
feel nothing--nothing," she replied.

Mr. Clarence, still holding her hand, led her to a large easy chair, and