“Oh! mother, calm yourself, try and talk more rationally; you are ill, very ill; once more I say to you this is the last conversation we shall ever hold together.” “Son, do you believe this? On your soul, is it the truth?” She spoke in a hoarse murmur. The artificial strength was leaving her in the very grasp of death. “Mother, yes!” The woman uttered a low, long wail, inexpressibly mournful. “It is on me now; it is on me now; my feet are numb; the ice is creeping up to my heart! Holy Jesus, this is death!” The horror that settled down, with the deathly gray, on her pinched features, was terrible to look upon; but more terrible still was the film that crept over the wild glare of her eyes, pressing them slowly in the sockets. He sat and watched, silent and appalled. So long as those eyes had the power to express the terror that froze them, they were turned upon his face. There was no agonizing struggle. Slowly and terribly, that old woman froze out of existence; and death left her in that squalid bed, a meagre shadow of the humanity her whole life had degraded. CHAPTER LXX. LITTLE EDDIE’S GRIEF. “Madam, a gentleman wishes to see you in the parlor.” Mrs. Oakley started up from the depths of a great easy-chair, in which she had been striving to bury her grief; and with breathless nervousness, very unusual to her, paced the room two or three times, smoothing the bandeaux of her hair rapidly with each hand as she walked. When this quick motion had composed her a little, she went down. The parlor was dim from the flowering vines that clustered around its windows. But though she saw her visitor but indistinctly, her heart gave a great bound, and she felt the blood surge back and forth from her bosom to her temples, leaving both paler than before. “Lady, dear lady!” It was his voice. It was De Marke that came toward her, with both hands extended, looking so bright, so strangely happy. Mrs. Oakley put out her hands to repulse him. “No, no, do not advance; do not come near me. I have been already sufficiently degraded!” De Marke stood still, dumb with astonishment, while she shrunk backward, step by step, with her frightened eyes upon him, as if she dreaded lest the fascination in his glance would enthrall her again. “Mrs. Oakley,” he said at last, “may I ask the meaning of this reception?” His voice was a little tremulous, but full of self-respect. “You have come here to insult me, sir!” “I have come here, lady, to say how truly and how long I have loved you.” The widow locked her white hands together and held them firmly; resentment was giving her strength. “Had you never said the same words to Louisa Oakley, my husband’s sister, she need not have died of shame in a charity hospital!” she answered, almost harshly.