Gladys was up and dressed by six o’clock.  She was anxious to spare her mother all possible trouble, and to see that the household was astir before she arose.  It was a cold, dark January morning.  As she went down the passage, a candle in her hand, towards Netta’s room, she felt the chill air press heavily around her.  She put the candle on the floor, outside the room, and went in.  The night-light had burnt out, and the fire was dim, though not extinguished.  Gladys passes Mrs Prothero without awaking her, and stands at Netta’s bedside.

She cannot see clearly the face of the sleeping Netta, but such a restless anxiety about her had haunted her all the night, that she stoops down to listen to her breathing.  It is so faint that she kneels down, and puts her ear close to the face.  So very faint it is, that she is not quite sure that she hears it at all.  She goes into the passage for the candle, and meets Owen.  She signs him to silence, and her pale face frightens him.  He goes with her into Netta’s room.  Shading the candle with her hand, she again stoops over Netta, so does Owen.

Very calm, very pale, and most lovely is the face on which they gaze with an eager, throbbing anxiety.  Gladys presses her hand on Owen’s arm, as she puts the candle near that placid face.  He, too, puts his ear close to the half-open mouth, touches the hand that lies on the white counterpane, feels for the pulse, so quick but yesterday.  He is about to utter the fear that oppresses him, but Gladys points to his mother, still heavily sleeping.

‘Perhaps it is a swoon,’ she whispers, and goes for the draught ready for such an attack.  The light of the candle awakes Mrs Prothero, and she is out of bed in a moment.

‘Netta has fainted, mother; she has one of her spasms,’ says Owen, turning his pale face to his mother.

‘My God, it is death!’ cries the stricken mother, falling on her knees by the bedside of her child.

And it is death.  Without a groan the spirit has quitted its dwelling of clay to enter upon its eternal rest!

CHAPTER XLIX.

THE RECTOR.

Life and death!  What are they?  A soul in chains, and a soul set free.  Darkness and light, uncertainty and certainty!  Warfare and peace!  A railway journey and the great terminus!  A span of time and immeasurable eternity!  A bounded horizon and illimitable space!  Earth and heaven!  Satan and Christ!  Man and God!

Life!  On New Year’s morning Glanyravon Farm was gay with preparations for a wedding.  All its inmates were hopeful and cheerful!  Two human beings were made as happy as human beings can be in this world.  Three generations witnessed the auspicious event, and blessings and congratulations mingled with the marriage bells!

One short week, and Glanyravon Farm was mournful with lamentations for the dead.  All its inmates were weeping.  Death’s angel had glided in unawares and unexpected, and had borne away one of that loving family, leaving only her earthly tenement behind!