her
confession. She called at the Brenton residence, but found it closed,
as it had been ever since the tragedy of Christmas morning. It took her
some time to discover the whereabouts of Mrs. Brenton, who, since the
murder, had resided with a friend except while under arrest.

For a moment Mrs. Brenton did not recognize the thin and pale woman who
stood before her in a state of such extreme nervous agitation, that it
seemed as if at any moment she might break down and cry.

"I don't suppose you'll remember me, ma'am," began the girl, "but I
worked for you two weeks before--before----"

"Oh yes," said Mrs. Brenton, "I remember you now. Have you been ill? You
look quite worn and pale, and very different from what you did the last
time I saw you."

"Yes," said the girl, "I believe I have been ill.".

"You _believe_; aren't you sure?"

"I have been very ill in mind, and troubled, and that is the reason I
look so badly,--Oh, Mrs. Brenton, I wanted to tell you of something that
has been weighing on my mind ever since that awful day! I know you can
never forgive me, but I must tell it to you, or I shall go crazy."

"Sit down, sit down," said the lady, kindly; "you know what trouble I
have been in myself. I am sure that I am more able to sympathize now
with one who is in trouble than ever I was before."

"Yes, ma'am; but you were innocent, and I am guilty. That makes all the
difference in the world."

"Guilty!" cried Mrs. Brenton, a strange fear coming over her as she
stared at the girl; "guilty of _what_?"

"Oh, madam, let me tell you all about it. There is, of course, no
excuse; but I'll begin at the beginning. You remember a while before
Christmas that John came to see me one night, and we sat up very late in
the kitchen, and your husband came down quietly, and when we heard him
coming we put out the light and just as John was trying to get away,
your husband shot twice at him, and hit him the second time?"

"Oh yes," said Mrs. Brenton, "I remember that very well. I had forgotten
about it in my own trouble; but I know that my husband intended to do
something for the young man. I hope he was not seriously hurt?"

[Illustration: "Guilty! Guilty of what?"]

"No, ma'am; he is able to be about again now as well as ever, and is not
even lame, which we expected he would be. But at the time I thought he
was going to be lame all the rest of his life, and perhaps that is the
reason I did what I did. When everything was