At Harlow House he saw at once that every window was
shrouded, and he turned heartsick with the fear that he was too late. A
porter, whose eyes were red with weeping, admitted him, and there was an
intolerable smell of drugs, the odor of which he recollected all the
days of his future life.
"She is still alive, sir--but very ill."
John could not answer, but his look was so urgent and so miserable the
man divined the hurry of heart and spirit that he was possessed by and
without another word led him to the room where the child lay dying. The
struggle was nearly over and John was spared the awful hours of slow
strangulation which had already done their work. She was not insensible.
She held tight the hand of her mother, kneeling by her side, and gazed
at John with eyes wearing a new, deep look as if a veil had been rent
and she with open face saw things sweet and wonderful. Her pale, mute
mouth smiled faintly and she tried to stretch out her arms to him. There
she lay, a smitten child, fallen after a bewildering struggle with a
merciless foe.
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