examine from moment to moment those contracted pupils and that damp white brow, and listen for the faint occasional breaths.  They did not think the thoughts which, could they have foreseen the situation, they might have expected to think.  It did not occur to them to search for the causes of the disaster, nor to speculate upon its results in regard to themselves:  they surrendered to the supreme fact.  They were all incapable of logical and ordered reflections, and in the hushed torpor of their secret hearts there wandered, loosely, little disconnected ideas and sensations; as that the Stanway family was at length getting its full share of vicissitude and misfortune, that John was after all more important and more truly dominant and more intimately a part of their lives than they had imagined, that this affair was a thousand miles removed from that of Uncle Meshach, that they were fully supplied with mourning, and that suicide was mysteriously different from their previous notion of it.  The impressive thoughts, the obvious thoughts—­that if their creeds were sound, a soul was about to enter into eternal torment, and that their lives would be violently changed, and that they would be branded before the world as the wife and the daughters of a defaulter and a self-murderer—­did not by any means absorb their minds in those first hours.

In the attitude of the girls towards Leonora there was a sort of religious deference, as of priestesses to one soon to be sacrificed.  ‘She is the central figure of the tragedy,’ they had the air of saying to each other.  ’We feel the affliction, but it cannot be demanded from us that we should feel it as she feels it.  We are only beginning to live; we have the future; but she—­she will have nothing.  She will be the widow.’  And the significance of that terrible word—­all that it implied of social diminishment, of feeding on memory, and of mere waiting for death—­seemed to cling about Leonora as she stood restlessly observant by the bed.  And when Rose urged her to drink some tea, she could not help drinking the tea humbly, from a sense of the duty of doing what she was told.  It was not Rose’s fault that Rose was superior, and that only twenty-four hours ago she had coldly informed her mother that no act of her father’s would surprise her.  Leonora resigned herself to humility.

‘Mamma,’ said Millicent, creeping into the room after an absence, ’Uncle Meshach is here with Mr. Twemlow, and he says he’s coming in.  Must he?’

‘Of course, darling,’ Leonora answered, without turning her head.

Uncle Meshach appeared, leaning on his stick and on Arthur’s arm.  He wore his overcoat and even his hat, and a white knitted muffler encircled his shrivelled neck in loose folds.  No one spoke as the old and feeble man, with short uncertain steps, drew Arthur towards the bed and gazed at his dying nephew.  Meshach looked long, and sighed.  Suddenly he demanded of Leonora in a whisper: