With a cry that might have been heard almost in the grave, the unhappy man shrank from me. At that instant, I turned in the direction to which he was pointing, with that agonised look upon his face; and as I did so, I loosened my hold and my hands fell powerless to my side. In the corner of the chamber hitherto hidden from me, I saw one of those old-fashioned bedsteads, with heavy draperies around it. The curtains were of silk, once a pearly white, now dulled and faded by age. The counterpane and pillow, once like driven snow, were white no more. Lying on the bed, with her head on the pillow, and her body partially concealed by the bed-linen, I saw the form of a woman—a woman who must once have been fair and beautiful to behold. Her luxuriant hair fell in wreaths on each side her face, and was then brought together over the bare white throat. Her arms were uncovered by the counterpane, and, clasping an infant child in their embrace, lay folded across her breast. As I realised all the details of what seemed like a vision, I confess that my nerves failed me. I could only look at that cold pale face, lying so still on the pillow, with the child-face nestling beside it; and as I looked, I realised that the stillness was the stillness of death. Like one entranced, I remained motionless for some moments, when again I was aroused to action. A figure clothed in white—the face scarcely less pale than the face of the dead, the scanty locks of hair, white with age, hanging loosely about her shoulders, the eyes fixed on the bed, and the hands stretched out supplicatingly towards it—glided into the room. Then catching sight of the prostrate figure of the man who had cast himself beside the bed, with his hands spread out on the form that lay there, this apparition of woe, turning on me a glance of reproach that will haunt me to my dying day, exclaimed, amid streaming tears: ‘You have killed him! My son, my son!’ * * * * * And now, how shall I finish my story without wearying you with explanations? Let me go back to that old question once asked by Gideon West: ‘What if success should come too late?’ For all the happiness it could bring him, it did come too late. His struggle with fate, if not a long, had been a bitter one. There fell a grievous sickness on the neighbourhood; disease and death stalked abroad, and mowed down their victims without counting the numbers. Against the grim tyrants, Gideon West fought day and night; his energy was endless, his courage undaunted; and he triumphed. No; not Gideon West; but the weapons of science triumphed in his hands. Disease and death were driven from the field; as they fled, they shot one last bolt at their victor—it glanced off his armour, but left his wife and child dead at his side.