An hour passed—­perhaps more—­and such an hour! (for I was not for a moment unconscious, after this, only deadly faint and weak), and then Richard came.  The door was a little open, and he pushed it back and came in, and stood beside the bed.

I suppose the sight of me, so broken and spoiled by suffering, overcame him, for he stooped down suddenly, and kissed me, and then did not speak for a moment.

At last he said, in a voice not quite steady, “I didn’t mean to be hard on you, Pauline.  But you know I had to do it.”

“And there isn’t any—­any—­” I gasped for the words, and could hardly speak.

“No, none, Pauline,” he said, keeping my hand in his.  “The doctors have just gone away.  It was all no use.”

“Tell me about it,” I whispered.

“About what?” he said, looking troubled.

“About how it happened.”

“Nobody can tell,” he answered, averting his face.  “We can only conjecture about some things.  Don’t try to think about it.  Try to rest.”

“How does he look?” I whispered, clinging to his hand.

“Just the same as ever; more quiet, perhaps,” he answered, looking troubled.

I gave a sort of gasp, but did not cry.  I think he was frightened, for he said, uneasily, “Let me call Bettina; she can give you something—­she can sit beside you.”

I shook my head, and said, faintly, “Don’t let her come.”

“I have sent for Sophie,” he said, soothingly.  “She will soon be here, and will know what to do for you.”

“Keep her out of this room,” I cried, half raising myself, and then falling back from sudden faintness.  “Don’t let her come near me,” I panted, after a moment, “nor any of them, but, most of all, Sophie; remember—­don’t let her even look at me;” and with moaning, I turned my face down on the pillow.  I had taken in about a thousandth fraction of my great calamity by that time.  Every moment was giving to me some additional possession of it.

Some one at that instant called Richard, in that subdued tone that people use about a house in which there is one dead.

“I have got to go,” he said, uneasily.  I still kept hold of his hand.  “But I will come back before very long; and I will tell Bettina to bring a chair and sit outside your door, and not let any one come in.”

“That will do,” I said, letting go his hand, “only I don’t want my door shut tight.”

I felt as if the separation were not so entire, so tremendous, while I could hear what was going on below, and know that no door was shut between us—­no door!  Bettina, in a moment more, had taken up her station in the passage-way outside.

I heard people coming and going quietly through the hall below.  I heard doors softly shut and opened.

I knew, by some intuition, that he was lying in the library.  They moved furniture with a smothered sound; and when I heard two or three men sent off on messages by Richard, even the horses’ hoofs seemed to be muffled as they struck the ground.  This was the effect of the coming in of death into busy, household life.  I had never been under the roof with it before.