The Duke was tall and very spare in figure, and seemed to have grown more so during the past week of anxiety and watching. His hair, which had hitherto been dark streaked with silver, seemed all at once to have silvered over almost entirely. His face was finely cut, and the features gave the impression of having been carved out of a piece of ivory. The eyebrows were very bushy and were still dark, and the eyes beneath were a steely blue and of a peculiarly penetrating quality. The thin-lipped mouth was indicative of an iron will, and the whole countenance was one to inspire something of awe and dread. At the present moment it was difficult to imagine that a smile could ever soften it--difficult, at least, until the Duke approached the side of his wife’s bed, and then the change which imperceptibly stole over it showed that beneath a hard and even harsh exterior--too deep perhaps for outward expression--lay a power of love and tenderness such as only a strong nature can truly know. “My love,” said the Duke very quietly, “Mr. Tremodart is here.” “I shall be glad to see Mr. Tremodart,” spoke a soft voice from the bed; and in response to a sign from the Duke, the clergyman (visibly quaking) passed round the great screen which shut off the bed from the rest of the room, and found himself face to face with the dying woman. It was a scene not to be forgotten by any who looked upon it. The Duchess lay back upon a pile of snowy pillows, the peculiar pallor of approaching death lying like a shadow across her beautiful face. And yet, save for this never-to-be-mistaken shadow, there was nothing of death in her aspect. Few and far between as Mr. Tremodart’s pastoral visits had been (for he was always fearful of intruding upon the great folks at the castle), he had many times seen the Duchess look more worn and ill than she did now. The lines of pain, which had deepened so much of late in her face, had all been smoothed away. Something of the undefinable aspect of youth had come back to the expression, and the soft dark eyes were full of a liquid brightness which it was somehow difficult for him to meet. It was as though the brightness had been absorbed from an unseen source. There was a great awe in his eyes as he approached and touched the feeble hand for a moment extended to him. On her knees beside the bed, grasping the other hand of the dying woman, was a young girl whose face could not at this moment be seen, for it was pillowed in the bed-clothes, whilst the slight figure was shivering and heaving with suppressed emotion. All that could be seen besides the slim graceful form was a mass of rippling loosened hair that looked dark in shadow, but lighted up with gleams of ruddy gold where the light touched it. Mr. Tremodart gave a compassionate glance at the weeping girl. It needed no word to explain the terrible loss which was coming upon her.