Yet she could not--would not--weep, or even complain much.
"You slept a bit later this morning, little one," he would say to her.
"Did I ?" she answered, with fretful weariness.
"Yes; it's nearly eight o'clock." He stood looking out of the window.

The whole country was bleak and pallid under the snow.

Then he felt her pulse.

There was a strong stroke and a weak one, like a sound and its echo.

That was supposed to betoken the end.