with
mental suffering began to render her incapable of further efforts.
Fortunately, Mrs. Baxendale perceived this in time. A nurse was
provided, in addition to the one who had assisted Mrs. Hood, and the
mother became herself the object of care.

Emily had been told that her father was ill, but this fiction it was
soon impossible to maintain. Three days after the last reported
conversation between Wilfrid and Mrs. Baxendale, it was determined that
the latter must take upon herself the office of telling Emily the truth.
Mrs. Hood implored her to do so; the poor mother was sinking into a
state which scarcely left her the command of her mind, and, though she
could not sustain the duty herself, it was her harassing desire that it
might quickly be performed. So at length the revelation was made, made
with all the forbearance and strengthening tenderness of which a
strong-souled woman is capable. But the first syllables prepared Emily
for the whole truth. A secret dread, which she had not dared to confess
to herself on that last evening, though probably it brought about the
crisis in her suffering, and which the false assurances recently given
her had perhaps not wholly overcome, rushed forth as soon as evil was
hinted at. The softened statement that her father had been stricken down
by a natural malady did not for a moment deceive her. She closed her
eyes; the pillows which supported her were scarcely whiter than her
face. But she was soon able to speak with perfect self-control.

'Was he brought home wrapped in something?' she asked. 'With his face
covered?'

'He was, Emily.'

'How and where did I see him? For I know I did see him.'

'Your mother has told me that you rose from your bed, and went to the
room below. She did not realise that you were unconscious; she believed
that you knew of this.'

This was her dread vision. As if to protect herself from it, she raised
her hand and laid it across her eyes. Then it fell again to the
coverlet--thin, flower-like hand, which in its translucency of flesh
seemed to have been created by spirit for its chosen abode.

When silence had lasted some moments--

'Now that I know he is dead,' Emily resumed--oh, the sad music of the
last word!--'I can bear to hear the manner of it without disguise. Will
you tell me the whole truth, Mrs. Baxendale?'

It was spoken like herself. Ever clinging to sincerity, ever ready to
face the truth of things, in how many a matter of less momen