The chamber of death is rightly judged the place for one emotion only. A hundred surged through her, pricked into life by the touch of the strong, gentle hand, and the subsequent heartlessness. Yet she sat still, her big eyes fixed on the dying face, her cheeks white as the pillow that encircled it. “You may go,” said the doctor to her firmly, yet in a lower voice again. “You will not be needed. When I leave I will knock for you.” But Marigold’s face had set hard and white. “I won’t go,” she said. “I promised him once I’d stay till the end, and I will stay.” “You are a nuisance,” he answered, evenly as before--no trace of passion in his voice. “So are you,” and all the world of subdued passion was in hers, and with big, gleaming eyes she looked across at him. Then, for the first time since she had known him, a change came into the doctor’s eyes as he knelt there looking at her. It was that dangerous light that brought no fear to Marigold, only a throbbing pleasure, seeing that she loved him. And then the room went very, very still, and they both of them looked back at Timothy. Yet there was more than the presence of Death in the room now--the presence of Love. Marigold felt it hovering round the little child, sinking so peacefully--felt it round herself, the room full of it, and Death being vanquished. She forgot she did not hold the other hand, content to clasp her own trembling fingers each within each, and wait. Very slowly and gradually, without hurry or haste of any kind, his breathing weakened. And then at last a little smile lit up the wan face, and he turned, with the last faint yearning of a child’s love, towards the Master. “I’m sleepy!” From his look and attitude it was as if he asked to be taken once more in the strong arms that had so often cradled him. And very tenderly, for the last time on Lucifram, the Master drew him to him--the little head against his breast, sheltered from death and every other evil. And so the dreamy shadows of silence crept over the fragile body--a smile of childish peace and contentment on the tender mouth. Some time passed so--Marigold watching; her whole soul in her eyes, having no thought for anything but them. What was she expecting? She scarcely knew, but her clasped hands rested on the bed, as she leant forward, eagerly waiting. The dark head was bent over the child’s, so that she could only see one face. Then suddenly the little face fell back slightly from the doctor’s shoulder, and, with a feeling of surprise and shock and utter pain, she realised that he was dead. But very gently the doctor laid him back upon the bed, drawing the sheet; and then he rose to his feet, Marigold watching him. Every emotion of love and tenderness and triumph was on his face--yet not for her, he had forgotten her--it was for Timothy. And suddenly it was all more than she could bear, and from understanding nothing a quickened instinct taught her everything.