She lay in his arms, and they were both silent. The clock struck again. In the street a passer-by was whistling "Oh, Nellie's blue eyes." She spoke drowsily: "Speak softly. You will wake the baby." * * * * * In the glimmer of dawn Salvers entered. A sombre mist penetrated the curtains at the windows, and in the grate a heap of embers reddened and waned and reddened and waned again. A light dust had settled over the room, over the mantel, the furniture, and the blankets on the bed--a fine gray powder, pale like the ashes of yesterday's flame. He crossed to the bed and took Mariana from Anthony's arms. Her head fell back and the violet shadows in her face had frozen into marble. She was smiling faintly. "My God!" said Salvers, in a whisper. "She has been dead--for hours." He laid her down and turned to the man beside him, looking at him for a moment without speaking. Then he laid his hand upon his arm and spoke to him as if to a child. "You must go home," he said, emphasizing the syllables. "It is over. You can do no good. You must go home." The other shook his head. His eyes were blank, like those of a man in whom the springs of thought have been suddenly paralyzed. "You must go home," repeated Salvers, his hand still upon his arm. "I will be with you in an hour. You must go." Beneath his touch Anthony moved slowly into the hall, descending the stairs mechanically. Salvers gave him his hat and opened the outer door. Going to the sidewalk, he motioned to his coachman. "Take Father Algarcife home," he said. He slammed the door and looked after the carriage as it rolled down the block and rounded the corner. Then he turned and re-entered the house. * * * * * When Father Algarcife reached the rectory, he went into his study, locking the door after him. Then he seated himself at his desk and rested his head in his hands. His mind had cleared from the fog, but he did not think. He remained staring blankly before him. The room was cold and damp, the fire had not been kindled, and the burned-out coals lay livid upon the hearth. The easy-chair was drawn before the fender where he had sat yesterday, and the lamp which he had not lighted the evening before stood on the little marble-top table. An open book, his pipe, and an untasted cup of coffee were beside it. On the desk his yesterday's sermon lay unrolled, the text facing him in bold black and white: "For who can tell a man what shall be after him under the sun?" The dull, neutral tones of advancing dawn flooded the room. There was a suggestion of expectancy about it, as of a world uncreate, waiting for light and birth.