The nurse came down the stairs hurriedly. Her face was swept with well-controlled dismay. She paused in the doorway. Her eyes met those of the brother and sister. "Dr. Loyd thinks you'd better come up." "Is the boy--is--he worse?" Mrs. Moore asked. "You had better hurry," the nurse answered. "There is only a minute--if that. He is dying." A few minutes later Mostyn and his sister came down the stairs. "Try to realize what the poor little darling has escaped," she said. "It may be the merciful hand of God, Dick. I know it is killing you, but that ought to be _some_ comfort." CHAPTER XVI Irene and Buckton were still at the hotel in Charleston. On the second morning following the happenings of the foregoing chapter they were having breakfast served in Irene's little sitting-room. In the light from the window he was struck, as he had been struck before, by her listless mien and the thickening shadows of disillusionment in her eyes. He had to remind her that the coffee-urn was at her elbow, and that he would not take his coffee from any hand but hers before she filled his cup. Her eggs and bacon she had barely touched. He saw her hands quiver as she passed his cup. He tried to enliven her by his cheerful talk, telling her that she was getting weary of the town and that they must move on to Savannah to take the steamer. "New York is the place for us," he said. "There we will have so much to do and see that you won't have time to get homesick. I really believe you _are_ homesick, darling. You see, you are a belle at home, a favorite with every one, and here you have to be satisfied with just me. I know I am a poor substitute, but I adore you, while they--" "Don't speak of home!" she suddenly burst out, almost at the point of tears. "One never knows what home is till one leaves it forever. Just think of it--why, it is forever--forever! When we left I did not consider that at all. I want to tell you something very strange. I almost feel--I hardly know how to put it--but I almost feel that a--a new spiritual nature is hovering about me, trying to force itself into my body. Why, I feel so tenderly about my father that it seems to me that I'd rather see him at this moment and undo what I've done than to possess the world. Whenever I start to--to speak affectionately to you a cold hand seems to fall on my lips. That is why--why I locked the door last night. It was not the headache, as I claimed. I had been thinking of Dick--my husband. I believe he is trying to undo his past. I don't believe a man could love a child as he loves ours and be very bad at heart. Something tells me that I ought to have stayed by him at all costs. We were wrong in marrying, no doubt; but once it was done, once a helpless little child was in our care--"