thousand rearing rocks do race."

"Can she survive?" repeated Lyon Berners, perceiving that the physician
hesitated to reply. "If she must die, do not fear to tell me so. I, who
love her best, would say, 'Thank God!' Can she survive?"

"Mr. Berners, I do not know. Her situation is very critical. She has had
convulsions. She is now prostrated and comatose," gravely answered the
doctor.

"Then there is good hope that the Angel of Death may take her home now?"

"There is strong hope, since you choose to call it hope instead of
fear."

"Ah! Doctor Hart, you know--you know--"

"That death in some cases might be a blessing--that death in this case
certainly would. Yes, I know. And yet it is my bounden duty to do what I
can to save life, so I must return to my patient," said the physician,
laying his hand upon the latch of the door.

"When may I see my wife?" inquired Lyon Berners.

"_Now_, if you please; but she will not know you," said the doctor,
shaking his head.

"I shall know her, however," muttered Mr. Berners to himself, as he
raised his hat and followed the doctor into the cell, leaving Beatrix
alone in the hall.

It was near midnight, and Miss Pendleton having been very properly
turned out of the sick-room, and having been then forgotten, even by
herself, had no place on which to lay her head.

When Mr. Berners, following the doctor, entered the cell, he found it
but dimly lighted by one of the wax candles with which his care had
supplied his wife.

In one corner sat Miss Tabby, whimpering, with more reason than she had
ever before whimpered in her life, over the new-born baby that lay in
her lap.

Near by stood old Mrs. Winterose, busy with her patient.

That patient lay, white as a lily, on her bed.

"How is she?" inquired the doctor, approaching.

"Why, just the same--no motion, no sense, hardly any breath," answered
the nurse.

"Sybil, my darling! Sybil!" murmured her heart-broken husband, bending
low over her still and pallid face.

She rolled her head from side to side, as if half-awakened by some
familiar sound, and then lay still again.

"Sybil! my dearest wife! Sybil!" again murmured Lyon Berners, laying his
hand on her brow.

She opened her eyes wide, looked around, and then gazed at her husband's
face as if it had been only a part of the wall.

"Sybil, my dear, my only love! Sybil!" he repeated, trying to meet and
fix her gaze.

But her eyes glanced off and wandered around t