t stage of old age had been marked
by poverty and distress; but somehow money seems to have a natural
affinity for old age. It grows upon old people, I think, like corns; and
certainly she never wanted money now.

There she was, lying in her bed, a miserable object indeed to see. She
was like a woman made of fungus--not of that smooth, putty-like, fleshy
fungus which grows in dank places, but of the rough, rugged, brown,
carunculated sort which rises upon old stumps of trees and dry-rot
gate-posts. Teeth had departed nearly a quarter of a century before, and
the aquiline features had become more hooked and beaky for their loss;
but the eyes had now lost their keen fire, and were dull and filmy.

The attorney was quite right. Hate was the last thing to go out in the
ashes where the spark of life itself lingered but faintly. At first she
could not see who it was entered the cottage; for the sight now reached
but a short distance from her own face. But the sound of his voice, as
he inquired of the other old woman how she was going on, at once showed
her who it was, and hate at least roused "the dull cold ear of death."

For a moment or two she lay muttering sounds which seemed to have no
meaning; but at length she said, distinctly enough, "Is that Philip
Hastings?"

"Yes, my poor woman," said the baronet; "is there any thing I can do for
you?"

"Come nearer, come nearer," she replied, "I cannot see you plainly."

"I am close to you, nevertheless," he answered. "I am touching the bed
on which you lie."

"Let me feel you," continued she--"give me your hand."

He did as she asked him; and holding by his hand, she made a great
struggle to raise herself in bed; but she could not, and lay exhausted
for a minute before she spoke again.

At length, however, she raised her voice louder and shriller than
before--"May a curse rest upon this hand and upon that head!" she
exclaimed; "may the hand work its own evil, and the head its own
destruction! May the child of your love poison your peace, and make you
a scoff, and a by-word, and a shame! May the wife of your bosom perish
by----"

But Sir Philip Hastings withdrew his hand suddenly, and an unwonted
flush came upon his cheek.

"For shame!" he said, in a low stern tone, "for shame!"

The next moment, however, he recovered himself perfectly; and turning to
the nurse he added, "Poor wretch! my presence only seems to excite evil
feelings which should long have passed away,