Cobb held the paper so the dim light should fall upon it and read the contents slowly, emphasizing each word. "Raise me up." The voice seemed to come from his throat, as if his lungs were closed. Oliver started forward, but Cobb, being nearer, slipped his arm under the wasted figure, and with the tenderness of a woman, lifted him carefully, tucking the pillows in behind the thin shoulders for better support. Oliver sank softly to his knees beside Margaret. Again the thin lips parted. "Read it once more." The voice came stronger now. Amos held the paper to the light, and the words of the telegram, like the low tick of a clock, again sounded through the hushed room. For a brief instant the inventor's eyes sought each face in turn. As his gaze rested on Margaret and Oliver, he moved his thin white hand slowly along the coverlet, and laid it first on Oliver's and next on Margaret's head. Then, with a triumphant look lighting his face, he lifted his arms toward his wife. "Sallie!" he called, and fell back on his pillow, lifeless. CHAPTER XXVI THE LIGHT OF A NEW DAY The crocuses are a-bloom once more. The lilac buds are bursting with the joy of the new spring. A veil of silver-gray floats over Moose Hillock. The idle brook, like a truant boy, dances in the sunshine, singing to itself as it leaps from ledge to pool. All the doors and windows of the big studio on the side looking down the valley are open to the morning air. Through one of these Margaret has just entered, her arms full of apple blossoms. One spray she places in a slender blue jar, the delicate blush of the buds and the pale green of the leaves harmonizing with the gold-brown of her marvellous hair as she buries her face among them. All about the spacious room are big easels, half-finished portraits, rich draperies, wide divans, old brass, and rare porcelain. In an easy chair, close to the window, with the fragrance of the blossoms around her, sits a white-haired old lady with a gossamer shawl about her shoulders. She is watching Margaret as she moves about the room, her eyes brimming with tenderness and pride. Now and then she looks toward a door leading into the bedroom beyond, as if expecting someone. Oliver stands before his easel, his palette and brushes in his hand. He is studying the effect of a pat of color he has just laid on the portrait of a young girl in a rich gown--the fourth full-length he has painted this year--the most important being the one of his father ordered by the Historical Society of Kennedy Square, and painted from Margaret's sketches. Malachi--the old man is very feeble--moves slowly around a square table covered with a snow-white cloth, with seats set for four--one a high chair with little arms. In his hands are a heap of cups and saucers--the same Spode cups and saucers he looked after so carefully in the old house at home. These he places near the smoking coffee-urn.