The evening went on at the Court. Miss Blake came back, bringing the news that the Reverend Mr. Cattacomb's throat was easier, which was of course a priceless consolation. At ten o'clock Mr. and Mrs. Sumnor took their departure, Sir Karl walking with them as far as the lodge. Lost in thought, he had gone out without his hat: in returning for it he saw his wife at one of the flower beds. "Lucy! Is it you, out in the damp? What do you want?" "I am getting one of the late roses for Margaret," was the answer. "She likes to have a flower to cheer her when she lies awake at night. She says it makes her think of heaven." "I will get it for you," said Karl. And he chose the best he could in the starlight, and cut it. "Lucy, I am going over the way," he resumed in a low tone, as they turned to the steps, "and I cannot tell when I shall be back. Hewitt will sit up for me." Of all audacious avowals, this sounded about the coolest to its poor young listener. Her quickened breath seemed to chafe her; her heart beat as though it would burst its bounds. "Why need you tell me of it?" she passionately answered, all her strivings for patience giving way before the moment's angry pain. Karl sighed. "It lies in my duty to do what I can, Lucy: and as I should have thought you might see and recognize. Should the child have a relapse in the course of the night, I shall be there to fetch Moore: there's no one else to go." Lucy let fall the train of her dress, which she had been holding, gathered round her, and swept across the hall; vouchsafing back to him neither look nor word. The chamber lay in semi-light: with that still hush pervading it, common to rooms where death is being waited for, and is seen visibly approaching. Mr. Moore's fears had been verified. The infant at the Maze had had a second attack of convulsions, and was dying. It lay folded in a blanket on its mother's lap. The peaceful little face was at rest now; the soft breathing, getting slower and slower, alone stirring it. Miss Diana, her hat thrown off, sat on her heels on the hearth-rug, speaking every now and then a word or two of homely comfort: the doctor stood near the fire looking on; Ann Hopley was noiselessly putting straight some things in a corner. With her golden hair all pushed from her brow, and her pretty face so delicate and wan, bent downwards, she sat, the poor mother. Save for the piteous sorrow in the despairing eyes, and a deep sobbing sigh that would arise in the throat, no sign of emotion escaped her. She knew the fiat--that all hope was over. The doctor, who saw the end getting nearer and nearer, and was aware that such ends are sometimes painful to see, even in an infant--the little frame struggling with the fleeting breath, the helpless hands fighting for it--had been anxious that Mrs. Grey should resign her charge to some one else. Miss Diana made one more effort to bring it about.