“What good will that do?”

“I think you would regret it if you were to let them take him away without looking at him.  He is so pretty as he lies in his little bed.  I thought you would come with me to see him.”  He was more gentle with her than she had expected, and she led him away to the room which had been their own, and in which the child had died.

“Why here?” he said, almost angrily, as he entered.

“I have had him here with me since you went.”

“He should not be here now,” he said, shuddering.  “I wish he had been moved before I came.  I will not have this room any more; remember that.”  She led him up to the foot of the little cot, which stood close by the head of her own bed, and then she removed a handkerchief which lay upon the child’s face.

“Oh, Hugh! oh, Hugh!” she said, and throwing her arms round his neck, she wept violently upon his breast.  For a few moments he did not disturb her, but stood looking at his boy’s face.  “Hugh, Hugh,” she repeated, “will you not be kind to me?  Do be kind to me.  It is not my fault that we are childless.”

Still he endured her for a few moments longer.  He spoke no word to her, but he let her remain there with her head upon his breast.

“Dear Hugh, I love you so truly!”

“This is nonsense,” said he; “sheer nonsense.”  His voice was low and very hoarse.  “Why do you talk of kindness now?”

“Because I am so wretched.”

“What have I done to make you wretched?”

“I do not mean that; but if you will be gentle with me, it will comfort me.  Do not leave me here all alone, how my darling has been taken from me.”

Then he shook her from him, not violently, but with a persistent action.

“Do you mean that you want to go up to town?” he said.

“Oh, no; not that.”

“Then what is it you want?  Where would you live, if not here?”

“Anywhere you please, only that you should stay with me.”

“All that is nonsense.  I wonder that you should talk of such things now.  Come away from this, and let me go to my room.  All this is trash and nonsense, and I hate it.”  She put back with careful hands the piece of cambric which she had moved, and then, seating herself on a chair, wept violently, with her hands closed upon her face.  “That comes of bringing me here,” he said.  “Get up, Hermione.  I will not have you so foolish.  Get up, I say.  I will have the room closed till the men come.”

“Oh, no!”

“Get up, I say, and come away.”  Then she rose, and followed him out of the chamber; and when he went to change his clothes, she returned to the room in which he had found her.  There she sat and wept, while he went down and dined and drank alone.  But the old housekeeper brought her up a morsel of food and a glass of wine, saying that her master desired that she would take it.

“I will not leave you, my lady, till you have done so,” said Hannah.  “To fast so long must be bad always.”