They went through the silent house without another word, through the long corridors so lately gay with the sound of laughing voices and the lustre of perfumed silken gowns. The gloom seemed to deepen, the very lights that should have lessened it looked ghastly. They came to the door of my lady’s room, and there for one-half minute Sir Ronald paused. It was as though he feared to open it. Then he made an effort. Kenelm saw him straighten his tall figure and raise his head as though to defy fear. With reverent touch he turned the handle and they entered the room together. Loving hands had been busy there; it was hung round with black velvet and lighted with innumerable wax tapers. She had loved flowers so well in life that in death they had gathered them round her. Vases of great, luscious white roses; clusters of the sad passion flower; masses of carnations--all mixed with green leaves and hawthorn branches. In the midst of the room stood the stately bedstead, with its black velvet hangings. Death lost its gloom there, for the quiet figure stretched upon it was as beautiful as though sculptured from purest marble; it was the very beauty and majesty of death without its horror. The white hands were folded and laid on the heart that was never more to suffer either pleasure or pain. Fragrant roses were laid on her breast, lilies and myrtle at her feet. But Kenelm noted none of these details--he went up to her hurriedly, as though she had been living, and knelt down by her side. He was strong and proud, undemonstrative as are most English gentlemen, but all this deserted him now. He laid his head down on the folded hands and wept aloud. “My darling! my lost, dear love, so young to die! If I could but have given my life for you!” His hot tears fell on the marble breast. Sir Ronald stood with folded arms, watching him, thinking to himself: “He loved her best of all--he loved her best!” For some minutes the deep silence was unbroken save by the deep-drawn, bitter sobs of the unhappy man kneeling there. When the violence of his weeping was exhausted he rose and bent over her. “She is beautiful in death as she was in life,” he said. “Oh, Clarice, my darling! If I were but lying there in your place. Do you know, Ronald, how and where I saw her last?” The haggard, silent face was raised in its despairing quiet to him.