In the room there was silence.  The child’s eyes unclosed, a gleam of recognition dawned in them, he whispered his mother’s name and put his hand up to her neck.  Then his look turned to his father, his lips moved.  Thorne knelt beside the pillow and bent his head to listen; the little voice fluttered and broke, the hand fell away from Ethel’s neck, the lids drooped over the beautiful eyes.  Thorne raised the tiny form in his arms, the golden head rested on his breast, Ethel leaned over and clasped the child’s hands in hers.  A change passed over the little face—­the last change—­the breath came in feeble, fluttering sighs, the pulse grew weaker, weaker still, the heart ceased beating, the end had come.

Gently, peacefully, with his head on his father’s breast, his hands in his mother’s clasp, the innocent spirit had slipped from its mortal sheath, and the waiting angel had tenderly received it.

Thorne laid the child gently down upon the pillows, pressing his hand over the exquisite eyes, his lips to the ones that would never pay back kisses any more; then he rose and stood erect.  Ethel had risen also, and confronted him, terror, grief, and bewilderment, fighting for mastery in her face—­in her heart.  Half involuntarily, she stretched out her hands, and made a movement as though she would go to him; half involuntarily he extended his arms to receive her; then, with a shuddering sob, her arms fell heavily to her sides, and he folded his across his breast.

Down below, pacing the floor, in hot impatience to be gone, was the other man, waiting with smoldering jealousy and fierce longing for the end.  And, outside, the snow fell heavily, with, ever and anon, a wild lash of bitter sleet; the earth cowered under her white pall, hiding from the storm, and the wind sobbed and moaned as it swept through the leafless trees like a creature wailing.

CHAPTER XXII.

The south of France.  There is music in the very words—­sunshine, poetry, and a sense of calm; a suggestion of warmth and of infinite delight.  No wonder pain, care and invalidism, flock there, from less favored climes, for comfort and healing; returning, year after year, to rest beneath the shadow of olive and ilex, and to dream the luscious days away beside the blue waters of the Mediterranean, drinking in strength and peace with every far-reaching gaze into the cloudless azure of the southern sky, every deep-drawn breath of the sunny southern air.

Mrs. Smith grew daily stronger, more like herself.  Time, and care, and ceaseless affection, had wrought their beneficent work, and mind and body were recovering a healthier tone; her interest revived, and her hold on life renewed itself.  As the weeks drifted into months, her condition became so materially improved that the anxiety of her family subsided and left room for other thoughts and interests; and finally her health was sufficiently re-established to admit of her husband’s leaving them in the picturesque French village, while he returned to America.