In this way she lingered on for a few weeks, and then died quietly one morning in early June, when her husband was in New York and only Magdalen and Alice were with her. They knew that she was failing, but they had not thought the end so near, and were greatly shocked when, at a faint call from her, they hastened to her side and saw the pinched look about her nose, the deep pallor about her lips, and the sweat-drops upon her brow. “Let me go for aunty,” Alice said, but her mother answered, “No, Alice, there won’t be time. I’m going somewhere, going away from here, and I want you and Magda to stay. It’s getting night, and the way is dark, and life is very weary. Give me your hands, both of you, my children.” She acknowledged Magdalen, and with a cry the young girl fell on her knees beside the bed, exclaiming, “Mother, oh mother, you do know I am your child. Call me that once more.” But Laura’s mind was going out after one who was not there, and she only whispered, “Where is Arthur? Allie, where is your father?” “In New York,” was the reply, and a shadow flitted over the otherwise placid face, as Laura rejoined, “Always in New York, the old, old story. I wish he was here; tell him, will you, that I am gone, and before I went I left word I was sorry I had troubled him so much. I’d like to kiss him again. _Magda_, let me kiss you for him; give it to him for me, and if I don’t look very bad, ask him to kiss me back, but not unless I’m decent looking. He’s fastidious, and fancies pretty faces.” She wound her arms about Magdalen’s neck and her cold lips gave the kiss for Arthur. It was their last; they never moved again, and when Magdalen unclasped the clinging arms from her neck and laid the poor head which had ached so long back upon the pillow, she saw that her mother was dead. They telegraphed at once for Mr. Grey, who reached home just at nightfall. They had dressed Laura in white and laid her on the couch with flowers in her hands and flowers on her pillow, and as if in answer to her wishes, the old worn look had passed entirely from her face, which looked smooth and fair and younger than the face of forty is wont to look. Many traces of her soft, girlish beauty clung to her still, and Mr. Grey, when first he went into the room and drew aside the muslin which covered her face, started, and uttered an exclamation of surprise at the unexpected beauty of his wife. He _did_ like pretty faces, and he was glad that the Laura, who lay there dead, was like the girl he had loved so passionately for a few brief months. The sight of her as she was now with the placid look on her white face and the long eyelashes shading her cheek, brought back something of his former love for Laura Clayton, and kneeling beside her he wept tears of sorrow and regret for the life which had been so full of sorrow.