ever, a very grey hue over her face, and wondered what her complexion was in health."
"She had a bright complexion," I answered, hastily.
"Well, she looked grey, but there were no other symptoms to indicate any danger, and I thought her desire for sleep a good sign, and begged of the nurse to encourage it as much as possible. I spoke to Raymond hopefully, poor fellow, and promised to call again at noon.
"I was hindered coming until nearly one o'clock. I then saw her again; she was asleep, breathing easily and with a happy smile on her face. About a quarter past three, I was just about to leave my house to see a patient at a little distance, when the woman I had engaged as nurse rushed in frantically and informed me, with a burst of tears, that Mrs. Raymond was dead.
"'She died in her sleep,' said the woman, 'without never a sigh or a groan. She just stopped breathing, that was all.'
"A wild expression in his eyes."
"I went over at once to the hotel to see her, but Raymond had locked the door and would not allow anyone into the room. I even tried to force an entrance, but he did not listen to me or reply to my repeated knocks. I heard him muttering and moaning to himself, and in a couple of hours he came out of the room with a wild expression in his eyes. The moment he saw me he told me I was a 'confounded fool,' and used some more strong expressions which I do not care to repeat. I asked to see the dead woman. With a great oath he swore that not a soul should look at her now again except himself."
"Then you did not see her after death?" I interrupted.
"No—there was no use in worrying the poor fellow."
"And now she is in her coffin?" I continued.
"Yes, fastened up: all ready for her last long journey."
I said nothing further, and in a few moments was in Will's presence.
I must draw a veil over the scene which followed. Will's excitement was all too real. He could not keep still for a moment. His eyes were bright and glassy, his hair unkempt; he had not shaved for a day or two. The moment he saw me he poured out a volley of eager words. Then he burst into the most heartrending groans I had ever listened to. The next moment his manner altered: he laughed and told me with an awful kind of glee of the arrangements he had made for the funeral.
"I have ordered them to light bonfires," he exclaimed. "Just the same as if Maggie were alive. We have often talked of those bonfires, and nothing pleased her more than to hear of the reception we should receive on our home-coming. She shall have her coming-home all the same, Halifax. I myself will help to bear her across the threshold of her house and mine. She shall sleep for at least one night under its roof before she goes to join the other wives of our house in the family vault. That will please her—yes, that will please her, poor darling."
"But she won't know anything about it," I replied.
Will fixed me with his bright eyes.
"How can you tell?" he retorted. "Do you think her spirit has gone far from mine? No, no; you won't get me to believe that. We are twin spirits, and it is impossible to part us. There was a cloud over the sweet soul during the last few days of her life; but Death has lifted it, she is mine again now."
He paused abruptly here, locked his hands together tightly and gazed into the fire as if he were looking at something. After a pause he said, with another laugh:
