he boudoir, and brought in
here so that the sick man might have the semblance now that he was
parted from the reality.

Only a feeble breath escaped Lord Radclyffe's parted lips: there was
no distortion in the face, and the hands lay still, waxen-white,
against the quilt. Louisa looked down on the sick man without, at
first, attempting to speak. She looked down on this the last cord of
hope's broken lute, the frail thread on which hung Luke's one chance
of safety: this feeble life almost ended, this weak breath which alone
could convey words of hope! For the moment Louisa's heart almost
misgave her, when she thought of what she meant to do: to bring,
namely, this wandering spirit back to earth, in order to make it
conscious of such misery as no heart of man could endure and not
break. It seemed like purposeless, inhuman cruelty!

Even if she could call that enfeebled mind back to the hideous
realities of to-day, what chance was there that the few words which
this dying man could utter would be those that could save Luke from
the gallows?

Was it not better to let the broken heart sink to rest in peace, the
weakened mind go back to the land of shadows unconscious of further
sorrow?

Uncertain now, and vaguely fearful she looked up at the portrait of
Luke. The eyes in the magnificently painted portrait seemed endowed
with amazing vitality. To the loving, heart-broken woman it seemed as
if they made a direct appeal to her. Yet, what appeal did they make?

To let the old man--"Uncle Rad"--die in peace, ignorant of the awful
fate which must inevitably befall the man whom he loved with such
strange, such enduring affection?

Or did those eyes ask for help there, where no other human being could
lend assistance now?

"Lord Radclyffe!"

The words escaped her suddenly, almost frightening her, though all
along she knew that she had meant to speak.

"Do you know me, Lord Radclyffe?" she said again, "it is Louisa
Harris."

No reply. The great eyes with the shadow of death over them were
gazing on the face on which they had always loved to dwell.

"Lord Radclyffe," she reiterated, and the deep notes of her contralto
voice quivered with the poignancy of her emotion, "Luke is in very
great danger, the gravest possible danger that can befall any man. Do
you understand me?"

Again no reply. But the great eyes--sunken and glassy--slowly fell
from the picture to her face.

"Luke," she repeated, dwelling on the word, "I