the room, where lay the dead wife, whom he had loved with all the
power of his strong heart. The doctor stumbled upstairs by the
fire-light, and met the awe-struck look of the neighbour, which at
once told him the state of things. The room was still, as he, with
habitual tiptoe step, approached the poor frail body, that nothing
now could more disturb. Her daughter knelt by the bedside, her face
buried in the clothes, which were almost crammed into her mouth, to
keep down the choking sobs. The husband stood like one stupefied.
The doctor questioned the neighbour in whispers, and then
approaching Barton, said, "You must go downstairs. This is a great
shock, but bear it like a man. Go down."

He went mechanically and sat down on the first chair. He had no
hope. The look of death was too clear upon her face. Still, when
he heard one or two unusual noises, the thought burst on him that it
might only be a trance, a fit, a--he did not well know what--but not
death! Oh, not death! And he was starting up to go up-stairs
again, when the doctor's heavy cautious creaking footstep was heard
on the stairs. Then he knew what it really was in the chamber
above.

"Nothing could have saved her--there has been some shock to the
system"--and so he went on, but to unheeding ears, which yet
retained his words to ponder on; words not for immediate use in
conveying sense, but to be laid by, in the store-house of memory,
for a more convenient season. The doctor, seeing the state of the
case, grieved for the man; and, very sleepy, thought it best to go,
and accordingly wished him good-night--but there was no answer, so
he let himself out; and Barton sat on, like a stock or a stone, so
rigid, so still. He heard the sounds above, too, and knew what they