“I am afraid it is but too true,” he replied.

“Has he ceased to love me, that he has done this?”

“My dear Lady Tayne, I know nothing but the facts—­nothing else.  Your servants sent for me to break it to you, for they could not bear to do it themselves.”

“My servants,” she said, mechanically.  She still held the flowers we had gathered in her hand, the lovely sprays of mignonette! suddenly they fell to the floor, and in a strange, hoarse voice, my mother cried:  “I must follow him!”

Oh, wondrous power of love!  My mother, who had been crippled and helpless so long, whose feet had never taken one step; my mother suddenly stood up, her face white, her eyes filled with wild fire.  She stretched out her hands—­into those dead limbs of hers seemed to spring sudden life.

“I must follow them,” she said, and she took what seemed to us two or three steps and then once again she fell with her face to the ground.

“I knew it would kill her,” said the rector.  “I told my wife so.”

He rang the bell.

“Send Lady Tayne’s maid here and the nurse.  Send for Mrs. Dalkeith and for the doctor!”

“It has killed her, sir,” said Patience, with a white face.

“I am afraid so,” he replied.

They raised her and carried her to her room; they laid her down, and the rector drew me to her.

“If any voice can call her back, my dear,” he said, “it will be yours; if she can hear anything it will be that.  Put your arm around her neck and speak to her.”

I did.  But, oh, Heaven! the white face fell helplessly on mine.  Oh, my beautiful young mother—­as I held her there a vision came to me of her, as I had seen her, with shining eyes and flying feet.

“She is with the angels of heaven,” said the rector, gently.  “My poor child, come away.”

“Do you mean that she is dead?” I asked—­“dead?”

“Yes, she is with the angels,” he replied.  “Thank Heaven for it!  Dear child, she could not have lived and borne this—­she would have suffered a torture of anguish.  Now it is all over, and she is at rest.  She must have died even as she fell.”

Was I dying?  My face fell on hers; an exceeding bitter cry came from my lips.

“Oh, mother—­mother!”

And then Heaven was merciful to me, too—­a dark shadow seemed to fall over me, and I remember no more.

When I awoke I was in my own room and the sun was shining—­the birds singing.  Emma sat by me.  Two days and two nights had passed since my mother died.

I saw her once again.  She had grown more beautiful even in death; loving hands had laid white flowers on her breast and on her hands—­a sweet smile was on her lips.

The rector stood there with me.

“She has been murdered,” I said; “that is the right word—­murdered.”

“Yes,” he replied, “murdered!  But she is among the angels of heaven.  Laura, loving hands have placed these flowers on your mother’s silent heart; do you know, dear child, what I should like you to place in her coffin?  The sweetest flower that grows.”