Jennie could not be away long. She came back after a few minutes unrested and unrefreshed. Finally one midnight, when the nurse had persuaded her that all would be well until morning anyhow, there came a hurried stirring in the sick-room. Jennie was lying down for a few minutes on her bed in the adjoining room. She heard it and arose. Mrs. Davis had come in, and she and the nurse were conferring as to Vesta’s condition—standing close beside her. Jennie understood. She came up and looked at her daughter keenly. Vesta’s pale, waxen face told the story. She was breathing faintly, her eyes closed. “She’s very weak,” whispered the nurse. Mrs. Davis took Jennie’s hand. The moments passed, and after a time the clock in the hall struck one. Miss Murfree, the nurse, moved to the medicine-table several times, wetting a soft piece of cotton cloth with alcohol and bathing Vesta’s lips. At the striking of the half-hour there was a stir of the weak body—a profound sigh. Jennie bent forward eagerly, but Mrs. Davis drew her back. The nurse came and motioned them away. Respiration had ceased. Mrs. Davis seized Jennie firmly. “There, there, you poor dear,” she whispered when she began to shake. “It can’t be helped. Don’t cry.” Jennie sank on her knees beside the bed and caressed Vesta’s still warm hand. “Oh no, Vesta,” she pleaded. “Not you! Not you!” “There, dear, come now,” soothed the voice of Mrs. Davis. “Can’t you leave it all in God’s hands? Can’t you believe that everything is for the best?” Jennie felt as if the earth had fallen. All ties were broken. There was no light anywhere in the immense darkness of her existence. CHAPTER LIX This added blow from inconsiderate fortune was quite enough to throw Jennie back into that state of hyper-melancholia from which she had been drawn with difficulty during the few years of comfort and affection which she had enjoyed with Lester in Hyde Park. It was really weeks before she could realize that Vesta was gone. The emaciated figure which she saw for a day or two after the end did not seem like Vesta. Where was the joy and lightness, the quickness of motion, the subtle radiance of health? All gone. Only this pale, lily-hued shell—and silence. Jennie had no tears to shed; only a deep, insistent pain to feel. If only some counselor of eternal wisdom could have whispered to her that obvious and convincing truth—there are no dead.