"I believe it!"

The third voice which pronounced those words was Mrs. Sherwin’s.

But was the figure that now came out from behind the screen, the same frail, shrinking figure which had so often moved my pity in the past time? the same wan figure of sickness and sorrow, ever watching in the background of the fatal love-scenes at North Villa; ever looking like the same spectre-shadow, when the evenings darkened in as I sat by Margaret’s side?

Had the grave given up its dead?  I stood awe-struck, neither speaking nor moving while she walked towards me.  She was clothed in the white garments of the sick-room—­they looked on her like the raiment of the tomb.  Her figure, which I only remembered as drooping with premature infirmity, was now straightened convulsively to its proper height; her arms hung close at her side, like the arms of a corpse; the natural paleness of her face had turned to an earthy hue; its natural expression, so meek, so patient, so melancholy in uncomplaining sadness, was gone; and, in its stead, was left a pining stillness that never changed; a weary repose of lifeless waking—­the awful seal of Death stamped ghastly on the living face; the awful look of Death staring out from the chill, shining eyes.

Her husband kept his place, and spoke to her as she stopped opposite to me.  His tones were altered, but his manner showed as little feeling as ever.

“There now!” he began, “you said you were sure he’d come here, and that you’d never take to your bed, as the Doctor wanted you, till you’d seen him and spoken to him.  Well, he has come; there he is.  He came in while you were asleep, I rather think; and I let him stop, so that if you woke up and wanted to see him, you might.  You can’t say—­nobody can say—­I haven’t given in to your whims and fancies after that.  There! you’ve had your way, and you’ve said you believe him; and now, if I ring for the nurse, you’ll go upstairs at last, and make no more worry about it—­Eh?”

She moved her head slowly, and looked at him.  As those dying eyes met his, as that face on which the light of life was darkening fast, turned on him, even his gross nature felt the shock.  I saw him shrink—­his sallow cheeks whitened, he moved his chair away, and said no more.

She looked back to me again, and spoke.  Her voice was still the same soft, low voice as ever.  It was fearful to hear how little it had altered, and then to look on the changed face.

“I am dying,” she said to me.  “Many nights have passed since that night when Margaret came home by herself and I felt something moving down into my heart, when I looked at her, which I knew was death—­many nights, since I have been used to say my prayers, and think I had said them for the last time, before I dared shut my eyes in the darkness and the quiet.  I have lived on till to-day, very weary of my life ever since that night when Margaret came in; and yet, I could not die, because I had an atonement to make to you, and you never came to hear it and forgive me.  I was not fit for God to take me till you came—­I know that, know it to be truth from a dream.”