"It is a will," said Mr. Closeby, as he rolled out a sheet of parchment
he had taken the precaution to bring.

The dying man laughed low as he replied:

"No, it is a confession. I can make it now, when it will redeem _her_
life without ruining mine."

The lawyer and the doctor exchanged glances, but made no comment.

What Mr. Horace Blondelle's confession would be they had already
surmised. What it really was will be seen presently.

The work occupied something more than an hour, for the narrator was very
weak from loss of blood, and spoke slowly, faintly, and with frequent
pauses, while the lawyer, at leisure, took down his words, and the
doctor from time to time consulted his pulse and administered
stimulants.

Meanwhile the three old women, with Gem, remained up stairs, gathered
around the small fire in their bed-room. Awe hushed their usually
garrulous tones, or moved them to speak only in whispers. Never seemed
an hour so long. At length it was past, and more than past, when the
door at the foot of the stairs was opened, and the doctor's voice was
heard calling upon them to come down.

"Is it all over?" whisperingly inquired Mrs. Winterose.

"The work is over."

"But the man, I mean."

"It is not all over with him yet. He still lives, though sinking fast."

"Don't you think he ought to have a clergyman?"

"He would be dead before a clergyman could be brought here."

This rapid, low-toned conversation took place at the foot of the stairs,
out of hearing of the dying man, whose senses were fast failing.

Mrs. Winterose then came down into the room and took her seat by the
bed, and from time to time bathed the sufferer's brow with her own
preparation of aromatic vinegar, or moistened his lips with brandy and
water.

Tabby, Libby, and Gem sat around the fire. The doctor and the lawyer
stood conferring in a low tone at a distant window.

Thus the death-watch was kept in the silence of awe, until Miss Tabby,
unable to resist her desire to do something for the sufferer, crept up
to the side of the cot opposite to which her mother sat, and "shook his
sands," by asking him in a low tone:

"Is there _no_ one in the world you would like to see, or to send a
message to?"

"No--no one--but Sybil Berners--and I have written a message to--her;
but--to see her--is impossible," gasped the man at intervals.

"Tabby, go sit down and keep quiet. You only worry the poor soul!" said
Mrs. Winterose.

Miss Ta