Thus two or three hours passed and then the fever grew rampant again, and fell upon that weak form like a vampyre, drinking up all the life that the lancet had left. Myra began to be frightened, and hoped impatiently for the doctor to come. There was something in the case that she could not understand; doubtless, it was all right, but the look of that haggard face was appalling. At last the physician came slowly, and with that slow method which is so irksome to an impatient heart. He came to the bed, felt of the patient’s pulse, laid the hand gently down, and turned away muttering that she might go on as before, there were no fresh directions to give. Now the patient opened his eyes, and fixed them with mournful reproach on the doctor’s face; he did not attempt to speak, but the great tears gathered slowly in his eyes, and the dark lashes closed again. As usual Myra followed the doctor out of the room. “Tell me,” she said; “he is no worse—he is getting well; there is no danger now.” The doctor drew on his glove, smoothing it to the hand, while she was speaking. “There is no hope, my dear madam; not a gleam. He must die before morning; did you not observe the black on his lips.” “Die before morning—my husband. Oh, no! you want to see if I have all the courage people talk about; but you see, doctor, I am a poor little coward. One does not fight with death. Don’t you see how I tremble? Don’t, don’t carry this any further. I’m not very strong, and—and—oh, my God! my God! why don’t you speak to me?” “Indeed, my poor lady, I have nothing more to say; it would give me great satisfaction to give you hope if I had any myself. But the last fatal symptom has come, no skill on earth can save him; it is but a question of time now—hardly that, in fact.” The doctor was going down-stairs as he spoke, for he would gladly have avoided the anguish that came like a storm into that white face, but Myra sprang after him, seizing hold of his arm. “O doctor! O doctor!” she cried, gasping for breath; “is this true?” “Indeed, I regret to say it, but nothing could be more certain.” Her hand dropped from his arm, her whole being grew cold till the icy chill penetrated to her heart. She watched him, as he glided down the stairs, with a strained and wild look. Then she turned and went into the chamber where her husband lay dying. When Myra came forth again she was a widow. In one of those cemeteries hemmed in by moss-grown walls and filled with gloomy verdure, they laid the young husband down to his long rest. A pale little woman with two fair children wondering at their black crape dresses, stood by silent and filled with a dreary wonder that it took so little time to render a human life desolate. There was no noisy grief in that solemn inclosure; the little children held their breath in vague awe. The mother looked on as if those strange men were burying her heart which she could never rescue back from the grave.