"I must speak the hard truth," he said, gently. "All that _can_ be done
_has_ been done. The next four-and-twenty hours, at most, will end
your suspense. If Nature makes no effort in that time--I grieve to say
it--you must prepare yourself for the worst."
Those words said all: they were prophetic of the end.
The night passed; and she lived through it. The next day came; and she
lingered on till the clock pointed to five. At that hour the tidings of
her husband's death had dealt the mortal blow. When the hour came round
again, the mercy of God let her go to him in the better world. Her
daughters were kneeling at the bedside as her spirit passed away.
She left them unconscious of their presence; mercifully and happily
insensible to the pang of the last farewell.
Her child survived her till the evening was on the wane and the sunset
was dim in the quiet western heaven. As the darkness came, the light of
the frail little life--faint and feeble from the first--flickered and
went out. All that was earthly of mother and child lay, that night, on
the same bed. The Angel of Death had done his awful bidding; and the two
Sisters were left alone in the world.
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