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 The man withdrew noiselessly. I went to the table and insisted on Raymond's eating. I was relieved to find that he was hungry, and ate a good meal. I noticed that as he ate his face became less exalted and more natural in expression.

"She's dead," he said, suddenly. "I can't quite realize it."

"Have a glass of sherry," I interrupted.

He took it from my hand and tossed it off.

"She's dead," he continued, "although her spirit has come to me, as I knew it would. Hers was the first dead body I ever saw. She looked beautiful in her last sleep."

"I am sure she did," I answered. "I should like to have seen her."

"I always thought that dead people were cold," he continued; "but she was warm—after death she was very warm. The next day she was cold, but not icy—not as books describe the dead."

"She died suddenly and was young," I answered. "Sometimes chemical changes account for warmth after death. Now, Raymond, I am going to see you to your room; you must go to bed at once."

"No, I shall stay here."

"Just as you please," I answered. "There is a sofa here, a comfortable one. You must lie down and go to sleep."

"My dear fellow," he answered, "I have not slept since Maggie died."

"You will to-night, for I am going to give you a sleeping draught."

"I don't think I'll take it. Should she visit me again, she would think my conduct heartless."

"No, she won't—she sleeps well, and so must you. Come, lie down. You need not even undress; all I want you to do is to rest." He was a bigger man than I, but I forced him to obey me. He lay down obediently on the sofa. I put a rug over him, and then going to my bad which lay on the floor, I took out a small medicine chest, mixed a certain draught, and gave it to him. In five minutes he was soundly asleep, and I could leave the room.

Berring was waiting to speak to me. Old Jasper hovered about in in the passages. Berring assured me that all was ready for the morrow's ceremony. I said I wished it to be as quiet as possible, and to take place early in the day. Berring said this should be done, and proposed that Mr. Herbert, the vicar, who was to officiate, should come and see me that evening.

"I will see him to-morrow," I said. "It is too late now."

Then the men began to question me with regard to Raymond. "Was he really insane? Had Mrs. Raymond gone out of her mind before she died?"

"I am sorry that I am unable to answer you," I replied. "Mrs. Raymond died from the effects of shock, caused by a railway accident, and her husband's mind is at present in a very disturbed condition. If great care is exercised, however, and he is spared all undue excitement, I trust soon to see an improvement in him. I am now going to sit in his room, and will wish you good-night."

The men retired, and I went softly back to the shaded study, and sat down in a chair by the fire. Raymond was sound asleep. I knew that by his tranquil and regular breathing. I also thought it extremely unlikely that he would wake before the morning. The