ed to retain
her strength for Sybil's sake, lies down in the dressing room and sleeps
from sheer exhaustion.

As the day wears on there is movement and bustle down stairs, they are
bringing in the body of the murdered man. The undertaker goes about his
work with pompous air, and solemn visage; and when darkness falls, John
Burrill's lifeless form lies in state in the drawing room of Mapleton,
that room over the splendors of which his plebeian soul has gloated, his
covetous eyes feasted and his ambitious bosom swelled with a sense of
proprietorship. He is clothed in finest broadcloth, surrounded with
costly trappings; but not one tear falls over him; not one heart grieves
for him; not one tongue utters a word of sorrow or regret; he has
schemed and sinned, to become a member of the aristocracy, to ally
himself to the proud Lamottes; and to-night, one and all of the
Lamottes, breathe the freer, because his breathing has forever ceased.
Even Constance Wardour has no pitying thought for the dead man; she
keeps aloof from the drawing room, shuddering when compelled to pass its
closed doors; living, John Burrill was odious to her; dead, he is
loathsome.

The day passes, and Doctor Heath does not visit his patient. At
intervals during the long afternoon, they have discussed the question,
"What shall we do to keep the patient quiet when the doctor comes?"

It is Constance who solves the problem.

"We must send for Doctor Benoit, Mrs. Lamotte; Doctor Heath's tardiness
will furnish sufficient excuse, and Doctor Benoit's partial deafness
will render him our safest physician."

It is a happy thought; Doctor Benoit is old, and partially deaf, but he
is a thoroughly good and reliable physician.

Late that night, Jasper Lamotte applies for admittance at the door of
his daughter's sick room. Constance opens the door softly, and as his
eyes fall upon her, she fancies that a look of fierce hatred gleams at
her for a moment from those sunken orbs and darkens his haggard
countenance. Of course it is only a fancy. In another moment he is
asking after his daughter, with grave solicitude.

"She is quiet; she must not be disturbed;" so Constance tells him. And
he glides away softly, murmuring his gratitude to his daughter's friend,
as he goes.

It is midnight at Mapleton; in Sybil Lamotte's room the lights burn
dimly, and Mrs. Lamotte and Constance sit near the bed, listening, with
sad, set faces, to the ravings of the delirious girl