“I swear—anything,” I said, recklessly. “Ah!” she laughed. Yes, let me remember that, in her hour of agony, I pleased her so—that once more, for the last time, I heard that sweet little joyous laugh. “Well,” she said, “as soon as I am dead, go downstairs. In the right-hand drawer of my father’s writing-table you will find a small revolver. I have kept it loaded. Shoot yourself! We shall then be as much together as we are now. You will?” It was an awful struggle—her dying eyes gazing into mine. At last I said: “I—will.” “Now I don’t hate this God of yours quite so much,” she began, when suddenly her face was convulsed, a rattle came in her throat, her eyes glazed. Minutes passed—half-an-hour; then (she had been dead a quarter-of-an-hour) I left her body, her beautiful young lifeless body, to Nurse, after kissing those dear lips for the last time, and I went to fulfil my promise. I locked the library door, and, opening the drawer, found not only a revolver, but a case of pistols. The revolver seemed to me untrustworthy, so I cleaned one of the pistols, and loaded it. Did I feel remorse, anxiety, as to my future? I did not. I felt absolutely apathetic, commonplace, as a body, I imagine, might feel without its soul, if its life could continue under those conditions. I had just completed the loading to my satisfaction when there was a knock at the door. “I will come presently,” I said. “Please, let me in,” said Mrs. Mervyn. “Baby fell off the sofa and is hurt. I have brought him.” Her child! For an instant the room whirled; then an agony of grief welled up within me. The poor, innocent child!—our child! Senselessly, I staggered to the door, opened it, and took the babe from Mrs. Mervyn. He was not much hurt—a wound on the head of but slight importance. Turning to reassure Mrs. Mervyn, I saw her gazing at the pistols as if she were petrified. “You meant _this_?” she said to me, her face aflame like the face of the accusing Angel. “What a love God must have had for you, for you to have been saved!” Walking to me, she took baby’s hand and laid it on mine. “He has saved you,” she said. “Oh, never, never forget it!” CHAPTER IX. THE BEGINNING OF THE SEQUEL. At first Hugh felt and seemed crushed. He had thought of many difficulties and troubles that might await him in his married life, but the one thing which had not entered into his calculations—Lilia’s death—was the unexpected occurrence which happened. He had sometimes felt, from the first beginning of their married life, that something was hanging over him—some fatality. The whole story of his acquaintance with the Pyms was so strange, that the memory of it oppressed him. Perhaps this accounted for the feeling of discomfort which was now and then almost a dread of the future.