He was not one of those who, seeing little in the faces of the living miss little in the faces of the dead.

The arrangement of the black hair on the pillow, the soft drapery, and the flowers placed there by the nurse to complete the artistic effect to which she had so confidently referred, were lost on him; he saw only a lifeless mask that had been his wife's face, and at sight of it his knees failed, and he had to lean for support on the rail at the foot of the bed.
When he looked again the face seemed to have changed.

It was no longer a waxlike mask, but Henrietta, girlish and pathetically at rest.

Death seemed to have cancelled her marriage and womanhood; he had never seen her look so young.

A minute passed, and then a tear dropped on the coverlet.