I was shown into the library, and in a few minutes Coralie came to me. I
hardly recognized her; her face was white, her eyes were dim with long
watching and bitter tears.

"I knew you would come," she said. "He is dying, Edgar; nothing in the
world can save him. Come with me."

I followed her to the pretty chamber where little Sir Rupert lay. Yes,
he was dying, poor child! He lay on the pretty, white bed; a grave-faced
doctor was near; the nurse, Sarah Smith, sat by his side.

His mother went up to him.

"No better! No change!" she cried, wringing her hands. "Oh, my God! must
I lose him? Must he die?"

He was my unconscious rival; his little life stood between me and all I
valued most, yet I knelt and prayed God, as I had never prayed before,
that He would spare him. I would have given Crown Anstey twice over for
that life; but it was not to be.

"Do not disturb him with cries," said the doctor to his mother; "he has
not long to live."

She knelt by his side in silence, her face colorless as that of a marble
statue, the very picture of desolation, the very image of woe.

So for some minutes we sat; the little breath grew fainter and more
feeble, the gray shadow deepened on the lovely face.