In suffering, in abject want and destitution, her heart still clung to her children, and threw around them a sphere of intenser affection, as all that was external grew darker, colder, and more dreary.

They were her jewels, and she could not part with them.

They were hidden away in her heart of hearts so deeply, that not a single one of them could be taken without leaving it lacerated and bleeding.
When the doctor entered, he found her lying upon the bed, with the body of her child hugged tightly to her bosom.

Little Emma had crept away into a corner of the room, and looked frightened.

Henry was crouching in a chair, with the tears running down his cheeks in streams.
"You are too late, doctor," said the mother, in a tone so calm, so clear, and yet to his ear so thrilling, that he started, and felt a chill pass through his frame.