death-like. Mary had not been sheltered from taking part in scenes
of suffering; she had seen sickness and death in cottages, as well as
in her own home, and she had none of the fanciful alarms, either of
novelty or imagination, to startle her in the strange watch that had
so suddenly been thrust on her but what did fill her with a certain
apprehension, was the new and lofty beauty of expression that sat on
that sleeping countenance. 'A nice boy,' 'rather a handsome lad,' 'a
boy of ingenuous face,' they had always called Leonard Ward, when
animated with health and spirits; and the friendship between him and
Aubrey had been encouraged, but without thinking of him as more than
an ordinary lad of good style. Now, however, to Mary's mind, the
broad brow and wasted features in their rest had assumed a calm
nobility that was like those of Ethel's favourite champions--those
who conquered by 'suffering and being strong.' She looked and
listened for the low regular breath, almost doubting at one moment
whether it still were drawn, then only reassured by its freedom and
absence from effort, that it was not soon to pass away. There was
something in that look as if death must set his seal on it, rather
than as if it could return to the flush of health, and the struggle
and strife of school-boy life and of manhood.

More than an hour had passed, and all within the house was as still
as ever; and through the window there only came such sounds as seem
like audible silence--the twittering of birds, the humming of bees,
the calls of boys in distant fields, the far-away sound of waggon-
wheels--when there was a slight move, and Mary, in the tension of all
her faculties, had well-nigh started, but restrained herself; and as
she saw the half-closed fingers stretch, and the head turn, she leant
forward, and touched her father's hand.