“You could have done no good, as it turned out, even if you had been in the house. The fault was mine. I killed her! I killed the poor little fragile woman, whose only fault was to love me too well, too jealously, too exactingly, too insanely!” exclaimed De Crespigney, heaping up words as men will do under any strong excitement. “Yes, I killed my delicate, sensitive wife! I killed her with cruel, shameful, unmanly words. Oh, accursed VILLAIN!” he cried, smiting his forehead with a violent blow, as he strode up and down the room. Dr. Prout went up to him, took his arm and drew it within his own, and saying, with the authority of a keeper over a madman: “Come, De Crespigney, you must go with me. I am going to take you off to bed and give you an opiate. You, Laban, there! Lead the way to your master’s chamber.” Marcel, whose stormy fits of emotion had reduced him to the weakness of infancy, submitted himself to be led from the room, preceded by his servant, Laban. Then there was left in the apartment of death, with the corpse, the old watcher, Sophia, and the child, Gloria, who had sobbed herself to sleep with her head on the black woman’s lap. A few minutes after the doctor had led De Crespigney away, however, Lamia softly entered the room and whispered: “The hot water is ready, mammy.” “Yes. Well, now take this child and carry her up to her room, and undress her without waking her, if possible, and put her to bed. But if she do wake, you stay with her till she goes to sleep again, an’ then you come down here an’ help me. You know what’s happened of by dis time, don’t you?” “Oh, yes; mist’ess hab broken a blood-vessel, an’ ’deed——” “Yes! Lord forgive me! I did fink by de way he ran on, as marster had done it hisself! I thanks my Lord it wasn’t him, and dere’ll be no crowner’s quest, nor hanging! Dere, gal, take de poor dear chile and carry her to bed. Well, poor mist’ess, I hopes de Lord will hab messy on her soul! Anyways, dere won’t be no more quarrellin’ an’ fightin’ an’ ’fendin’ an’ provin’ an’ ’spoundin’ an’ ’splainin’ in de house to drive a body ravin’, ’stracted mad. Marse ain’t ’clined to quarrel much hisself, an’ if he was, he couldn’t quarrel by hisself ’dout some one else to help him,” growled old ’Phia, as she lifted the child and laid her, still sleeping, in the arms of Lamia. The girl took the exhausted child up to her room, undressed, and put her into bed without awakening her. Once, indeed, the poor little creature half waked as she was finally laid on her pillow; but she only sobbed and swooned away to sleep. Lamia stood by the bed watching her for a few minutes, and seeing that she was not likely to wake for hours to come, left the chamber and went down stairs to join her “mammy” in the room of death. Together they washed and dressed the dead, and laid it out neatly on the long table to await the undertaker. Then ’Phia lighted a couple of wax candles and placed one at the head and one at the foot.