"We--or, rather, she--first took up the paper, and without knowing what the news was that you told us to look at, gave it to me, and asked me to read it. I, as soon as I saw what it was--I lost all control over myself. I do not know how I behaved. But she took the paper, to see what it was that had so disturbed me, and then, she, too, became very much agitated; but she tried to console me, tried for a long while to comfort me, standing over my chair, and caressing and talking. At last she left me, and sat down and leaned back in her own chair. I was trying to be quiet, and at last succeeded, and then I arose and went to her, meaning to tell her that I would be calm and not distress her any more. When I looked at her, I found that she had fainted. I rang and sent off for a doctor instantly, and while waiting for him did all that was possible to revive her, but without effect. When the doctor came and examined her condition he pronounced her quite dead." "This must have occurred four or five hours ago. Why was I not sent for?" "You were sent for immediately. Messengers were dispatched in every direction. But you could nowhere be found. They did not, indeed, know where to look for you." "Now close the window again, and then go and leave me alone; and do not let any one disturb me on any account," said the old man, who had not once moved from the bedside, or even lifted his gaze from the face of the dead. "I have telegraphed to North End for Uncle Fabian and Clarence, also to West Point for Sylvanus. Sylvan cannot reach here before to-morrow, but my uncles will be here this evening. Shall I send you word when they arrive?" "No. Let no one come to me to-night." "Shall I send you up anything, grandfather?" "No, no. If I require anything I will ring for it. Go now, Cora, and leave me to myself." The girl went away, closing the door behind her. As she descended the stairs she heard the key turned, and knew that her grandfather had so shut out all intruders. He who had come home hungry and furious as a famished wolf never appeared at the dinner that he had so peremptorily ordered to be served at once, but shut himself up fasting with his dead. If his eyes were now opened to see how much he had made her suffer through his selfishness, cruelty, and despotism all her married life--if his late remorse awoke--if he grieved for her--no one ever knew it. He never gave expression to it. CHAPTER VIII. "THE PEACE OF GOD WHICH PASSETH ALL UNDERSTANDING." In the late dawn of that dark winter day Mr. Clarence came down into the parlor, and found Cora still there, with one gas jet burning low. "Up so early, my dear child?" he said, as he took her hand and gave her the good morning kiss. "I have not been in bed," she replied. "Not in bed all night! That was wrong. How cold your hands are? Go to bed now, dear." "I cannot. I do not wish to."