t in his easy-chair, in morning-gown and
slippers, deeply immersed in the columns of his account-books.

"Oh, Mr. Hurlhurst," cried Birdie, her little, white, scared face
peering in at the door, "won't you please come quick? Mrs. Corliss,
the housekeeper, has fainted ever so long ago, and I can't bring her
to!"

Basil Hurlhurst hurriedly arose and followed the now thoroughly
frightened child quickly to the room where the old housekeeper lay,
her hands pressed close to her heart, the look of frozen horror
deepening on her face.

Quickly summoning the servants, they raised her from the floor. It was
something more than a mere fainting fit. The poor old lady had fallen
face downward on the floor, and upon the sharp point of the scissors
she had been using, which had entered her body in close proximity to
her heart. The wound was certainly a dangerous one. The surgeon, who
was quickly summoned, shook his head dubiously.

"The wound is of the most serious nature," he said. "She can not
possibly recover."

"I regret this sad affair more than I can find words to express," said
Basil Hurlhurst, gravely. "Mrs. Corliss's whole life almost has been
spent at Whitestone Hall. You tell me, doctor, there is no hope. I can
scarcely realize it."

Every care and attention was shown her; but it was long hours before
Mrs. Corliss showed signs of returning consciousness, and with her
first breath she begged that Basil Hurlhurst might be sent for at
once.

He could not understand why she shrunk from him, refusing his
proffered hand.

"Tell them all to leave the room," she whispered. "No one must know
what I have to say to you."

Wondering a little what she had to say to him, he humored her wishes,
sending them all from the room.

"Now, Mrs. Corliss," he said, kindly drawing his chair up close by the
bedside, "what is it? You can speak out without reserve; we are all
alone."

"Is it true that I can not live?" she asked, eagerly scanning his
face. "Tell me truthfully, master, is the wound a fatal one?"

"Yes," he said, sympathetically, "I--I--am afraid it is."

He saw she was making a violent effort to control her emotions. "Do
not speak," he said, gently; "it distresses you. You need perfect rest
and quiet."

"I shall never rest again until I make atonement for my sin," she
cried, feebly. "Oh, master, you have ever been good and kind to me,
but I have sinned against you beyond all hope of pardon. When you hear
what I have