"If there is any one I love, it is you," he said, "but I do not know that I love any one--it is this inertia, dearest"--he touched his breast--"it buries love beneath it, it buries all emotion. You are not to blame. If I could conquer it my love for you would be as full, as fresh, and strong as ever. Good-by now. Take care of yourself. If those strange symptoms continue pray consult Dr. Rumsey." He went out of the room. Margaret was too stricken and stunned to follow him. A few days later a child's funeral left the house in Seymour Street. Margaret followed her child to the grave. She then returned home, wondering if she could possibly endure the load which had fallen upon her. The house seemed empty--she did not think anything could ever fill it again. Her own heart was truly empty--she felt as if there were a gap within it which could never by any possibility be closed up again. Since the night after her child's death she had heard nothing from her husband--sometimes she wondered if he were still alive. Dr. Rumsey tried to reassure her on this point--he did not consider Awdrey the sort of man to commit suicide. Mrs. Everett came to see Margaret every day during this time of terrible grief, but her excited face, her watchful attitude, proved the reverse of soothing. She was sorry for Margaret, but even in the midst of Margaret's darkest grief she never forgot the mission she had set before herself. On the morning of the funeral she followed the procession at a little distance. She stood behind the more immediate group of mourners as the body of the beautiful child was laid in his long home. Had his father been like other men, Margaret would never have consented to the child's being buried anywhere except at Grandcourt. Under existing circumstances, however, she had no energy to arrange this. About an hour after Mrs. Awdrey's return, Mrs. Everett was admitted into her presence. Margaret was seated listlessly by one of the tables in the drawing-room. A pile of black-edged paper was lying near her--a letter was begun. Heaps of letters of condolence which had poured in lay near. She was endeavoring to answer one, but found the task beyond her strength. "My poor dear!" said Mrs. Everett. She walked up the long room, and stooping down by Margaret, kissed her. Margaret mechanically returned her embrace. Mrs. Everett untied her bonnet-strings and sat by her side. "Don't try to answer those letters yet," she said. "You are really not fit for it. Why don't you have a composing draught and go to bed?" "I would rather not; the awakening would be too terrible," said Margaret. "You will knock yourself up and get really ill if you go on like this." "It does not matter, Mrs. Everett, whether I am ill or well. Nothing matters," said Margaret, in a voice of despair.