Its face, placed straight on the pillow—­and as the fire blazed up, the sharp profile being reflected in grotesque distinctness on the wall behind—­was a man’s face, thin and ghastly, the skin tightly drawn over the features, as is seen in the last stage of consumption.

Lord Cairnforth had never beheld death—­not in any form.  But he felt, by instinct, that he was looking upon it now, or the near approach to it, in the man who lay there, too rapidly passing into unconsciousness even to notice his presence—­Helen’s husband, Captain Bruce.

The dreadful fascination of the sight drew his attention even from Helen herself.  He sat gazing at his cousin, the man who had deceived and wronged him, and not him only, but those dearer to him than himself —–­the man whom, a day or two ago, he had altogether hated and despised.  He dared do neither now.  A heavier hand than that of mortal justice was upon his enemy.  Whatever Captain Bruce was, whatever he had been, he was now being taken away from all human judgment into the immediate presence of Him who is at once the Judge and the Pardoner of sinners.

Awe-struck, the earl sat and watched the young man (for he could not be thirty yet), struck down thus in the prime of his days—­carried away into the other world—­while he himself, with his frail, flickering taper of a life, remained.  Wherefore?  At length, in a whisper, he called “Helen!” and she came and knelt beside the earl’s chair.

“He is fast going,” said she.

“I see that.”

“In an hour or two, the doctor said.”

“Then I will stay, if I may?”

“Oh yes.”

Helen said it quite passively; indeed, her whole appearance as she moved about the room, and then took her seat by her husband’s side, indicated one who makes no effort either to express or to restrain grief—­who has, in truth, suffered till she can suffer no more.

The dying man was not so near death as the doctor had thought, for after a little he fell into what seemed a natural sleep.  Helen leant her head against the wall and closed her eyes.  But that instant was heard from the inner room a cry, the like of which Lord Cairnforth had never heard before—­the sharp, waking cry of a very young infant.

In a moment Helen started up—­her whole expression changed; and when, after a short disappearance, she re-entered the room with her child, who had dropped contentedly asleep again, nestling to her bosom, she was perfectly transformed.  No longer the plain, almost elderly woman; she had in her poor worn face the look—­which makes any face young, nay, lovely—­the mother’s look.  Fate had not been altogether cruel to her; it had given her a child.

“Isn’t he a bonnie bairn?” she whispered, as once again she knelt down by Lord Cairnforth’s chair, and brought the little face down so that he could see it and touch it.  He did touch it with his feeble fingers—­ the small soft cheek—­the first baby-cheek he had ever beheld.