They had not darkened the room, after the usual ghostly fashion--Stephen
Letsom would not have it so--but they had let in the fresh air and the
sunshine, and had placed autumn flowers in the vases. The baby had been
carried away--the kind-hearted nurse had charge of it. Dr. Evans had
gone home, haunted by the memory of the beautiful dead face. The birds
were singing in the morning sun; and Lord Charlewood, still crushed by
his great grief, lay on the couch in the little sitting-room where he
had spent so weary a night.
"I cannot believe it," he said, "or, believing, cannot realize it. Do
you mean to tell me, doctor, that she who only yesterday sat smiling by
my side, life of my life, soul of my soul, dearer to me than all the
world, has gone from me, and that I shall see her no more? I cannot, I
will not believe it! I shall hear her crying for me directly, or she
will come smiling into the room. Oh, Madaline, my wife, my wife!"
Stephen Letsom was too clever a man and too wise a doctor to make any
endeavor to stem such a torrent of grief. He knew that it must have its
way. He sat patiently listening, speaking when he thought a word would
be useful; and Lord Charlewood never knew how much he owed to his kind,
unwearied patience.
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