heeks, and he turned hastily away.

"Biggs!"

The voice, still strong and commanding, cut the semi-gloom like a knife.

Biggs, who was about to tuck the heavy curtains still more securely over
the windows, whirled as though he had touched a live wire, and in a
flash was across the great room and beside the bed.

"Did you call, sir?" His voice quavered.

"No"--a faint twinkle lighted the sick man's eyes--"I just spoke."

"Ah, now sir," cried the overjoyed Biggs, "you are better, sir."

"Biggs, I want some air and sunshine."

"But the doctor, sir----"

"Drat the doctor! If I'm going to pass out I want to see where I'm
going."

"Oh, but sir," expostulated the old servant, as he parted the curtains
and partially opened a casement window, "I wish you wouldn't say that,
sir."

"I believe in facing a situation squarely, Biggs. My father and
grandfather died from this family malady, and I guess I'm headed over
the same route."

"Please, sir," entreated Biggs.

"Biggs, I want to ask you a question."

"Yes, sir?"

"Are you a Christian?"

"I try to be, sir."

"Do you believe in death?"

Biggs was thoroughly startled and confused.

"Why--a--we all have to die, sometime, sir," he answered haltingly, not
knowing what else to say.

"But do we actually die?" insisted the sufferer.

"Well, I hope--not yet," ventured the old servant. "The doctor said----"

"Forget the doctor," interposed McMasters. "Biggs, you have been in our
service since I was a lad, haven't you?"

Tears welled into the servant's eyes, and his voice faltered.

"Fifty-six years, come next November," he answered.

"Well, let me tell you something, that even in those fifty-six years you
never learned, Biggs. My grandfather was buried alive!"

"Oh, sir! Impossible!" cried Biggs, in horror.

"Absolutely," asserted the banker.

"Why--are you--how do you know, sir?" in a hoarse whisper.

"My father built a family mausoleum in the far corner of this estate,
didn't he?"

"Yes, sir--he hated burial in the earth, sir, after reading a poem of
Edgar Allan Poe's, sir!"

"What poem was that, Biggs?"

"I don't recall the name of it, but I remember the line," faltered
Biggs.

"What was it?"

"Oh, sir," cried the old man, "let's talk about something cheerful."

"Not until we're through with this discussion, Hiram."

* * * * *

The sound of his given name restored Biggs somewhat, for the banker
resorted to