"Mamma!" he cried. "I see! I see!"

She bent over him, and at that moment he died.

I can never forget it--the wild, bitter anguish of that unhappy woman,
how she wept, how she tore her hair, how she called her child back by
every tender name a mother's love could invent.

It was better, the doctor said, that the first paroxysm of grief should
have full vent. All attempts at comfort and consolation were unavailing.
I raised her from the ground, and when she saw my face she cried:

"Oh, Edgar! Edgar! it is my just punishment!"

I did my best to console her. I told her that her little child would be
better off in heaven than were he master of fifty Crown Ansteys. But I
soon found that my words fell on deaf ears; she was unconscious.

"I do not like the look of Mrs. Trevelyan," said the doctor. "I should
not be surprised to find that she has caught the fever herself. If so,
in her present state of agitation, it will go hard with her."

He was right; before sunset Coralie lay in the fierce clutches of the
fever, insensible to everything.

I do not like dwelling on this part of the story; it is so long, long
since it all happened, but the memory of it stings like a sharp pain.

Clare came to nurse her, and everything that human science and skill
could suggest was done to save her. It was all in vain.