When the doctor told her, she could not believe it, and throwing herself on her knees beside the tiny corpse, tried in vain to see some sign of life. Alas it was all in vain, and after an hour of agonising dread she was obliged to accept the inevitable. She did not lament, she did not weep, but only sat in dumb tearless silence by the side of her dead child. One thing only she muttered, with ashen lips, and restless hands plucking at her dress. "It is the judgment of God, because I loved His creature better than Himself." There is no grief so terrible as that silent, self-concentrated agony which gives no sign. All through the lonely hours of the night she sat beside the crib, where all that she held dearest and best was lying stiff and cold, the tiny hands crossed on the breast, a smile on the placid little face. They tried in vain to persuade her to go to bed, to take some refreshment, to leave the room where the dead child lay, but all in vain, for rejecting all offers of consolation and kindness, she sat frozen with grief in the darkened room. The morning came, the time that she had been accustomed to hear the merry little voice and see the happy face, but the voice was silent now for evermore, and the face--could that still, white mask be the face she had seen smiling in her own, the face that she had covered so often with kisses? She could not cry, although tears would have been a relief, she could not talk, although it would have eased her pain, she could only sit in a trance of speechless, thoughtless horror beside her dead. Mrs. Tasker, wise old woman that she was, knew that unless something was done, and that speedily, to rouse her mistress from this apathetic state, there would be danger of the mind becoming unhinged, so finding out Mr. Gartney's address in London, which she obtained by sending over to Castle Grim, sent a telegram and afterwards a letter to him urging him to bring the husband, the father, to the stricken mother. Eustace was leading an aimless life in Town, when he received the news, and was terribly grieved about it. Without delay, he wired to Errington at San Remo, and then wrote to Victoria at Dunkeld Castle, asking her to come at once to the unhappy woman. Mrs. Macjean, much moved by the intelligence, came south without delay, in company with her husband, and went down to the Hall. The sight of the young bride's kind face did more good to Lady Errington than anything else, and after all the apathy and horror of those dark days succeeding the death, the blessed tears came to relieve her overburdened heart. The two women wept in one another's arms, and hand in hand stood by the little coffin wherein lay the tiny body of the child. Otterburn kept out of their way as much as he could, feeling that his rough masculine nature was but ill-suited to this house of mourning, but attended to all the details of the funeral pending the arrival of Errington. And Guy?