wave on either side over her white round arms, and the graceful curve of
her beautiful neck might have furnished a sculptor with a study for a
mourning Madonna. The doctor had just broken his sad tidings to her,
and she was still in the first paroxysm of her grief--a grief too acute,
as was evident even to the unsentimental mind of the merchant, to allow
of any attempt at consolation. A greyhound appeared to think
differently, for he had placed his fore-paws upon his young mistress's
lap, and was attempting to thrust his lean muzzle between her arms and
to lick her face in token of canine sympathy. The merchant paused
irresolutely for a moment, and then ascending the broad staircase he
pushed open the door of Harston's room and entered.

The blinds were drawn down and the chamber was very dark. A pungent
whiff of disinfectants issued from it, mingled with the dank, heavy
smell of disease. The bed was in a far corner. Without seeing him,
Girdlestone could hear the fast laboured breathing of the invalid.
A trimly dressed nurse who had been sitting by the bedside rose, and,
recognizing the visitor, whispered a few words to him and left the room.
He pulled the cord of the Venetian blind so as to admit a few rays of
daylight. The great chamber looked dreary and bare, as carpet and
hangings had been removed to lessen the chance of future infection.
John Girdlestone stepped softly across to the bedside and sat down by
his dying friend.

The sufferer was lying on his back, apparently unconscious of all around
him. His glazed eyes were turned upwards towards the ceiling, and his
parched lips were parted, while the breath came in quick, spasmodic
gasps. Even the unskilled eye of the merchant could tell that the angel
of death was hovering very near him. With an ungainly attempt at
tenderness, which had something pathetic in it, he moistened a sponge