purplish face upon the pillows. To his surprise, the chin had dropped and the eyes had closed sleepily.
The doctor, who had been sitting with his hand upon the pulse, gently placed the wrist which he had held across the aged breast and stood erect, with an expression of decision which no one could misread.
"Oh!" sobbed a voice from the gloom.
Hampstead felt a sudden sense of shock, and his knees swayed under him sickeningly. That was death there upon the pillow; and that was death with its bony hooks about his palm. Sister Showalter had gone out with the undertow that pulled at her while he was praying.
John lifted his hand helplessly.
"It—it doesn't let go," he whispered.
The doctor glanced at the embarrassed Hampstead searchingly, then reached over and straightened the aged fingers.
"Young man," said the physician earnestly and even reverently. "She clung to you as she went down into the waters. For a time I felt your young strength actually holding her back, and then your words seemed to make her strong enough to push off boldly of her own accord. It is a great thing, my friend," and the doctor seemed deeply affected, "to have strength enough and sympathy and faith enough to rob death of its terror for a feeble soul like that—a very great thing!"
The earnestness of the doctor brought a lump into John's throat.
"Thank you, sir," he murmured, but immediately was lost in looking curiously at the thing upon the pillows.
"You have another duty," said the physician, nodding toward the shadows at the back, where a single heart-broken wail had been followed by a convulsive sobbing.
John went and stood beside the Gloom Woman.
"Mother is go—h-h-gone!" she sobbed.
