"Stop!" she cried, with a gleam of the old
resolution flashing once more over the dying
dimness of her eyes. She caught at Sarah's
hand with a great effort, placed it on the
Bible, and held it there. Her other hand
wandered a little over the bed-clothes, until
it encountered the written paper addressed
to her husband. Her fingers closed on it;
and a sigh of relief escaped her lips. "Ah!"
she said. "I know what I wanted the Bible
for, now. I'm dying with all my senses about
me, Sarah; you can't deceive me even yet."
She stopped again, smiled a little, whispered
to herself rapidly, "Wait, wait, wait!" then
added aloud, with the old stage voice and
the old stage gesture again: "No! I won't
trust you on your promise. I'll have your
oath. Kneel down. These are my last
words in this world—disobey them if you
dare!"

Sarah dropped on her knees by the bed.
The breeze outside, strengthening just then
with the slow advance of the morning,
parted the window-curtains a little, and wafted
a breath of its sweet fragrance joyously into
the sick-room. The heavy-beating hum of
the distant surf came in at the same time.
and poured out its unresting music in
louder tones. Then the window-curtains
fell to again heavily, the wavering flame
of the candle grew steady once more, and
the awful silence in the room sank deeper
than ever.

"Swear," said Mrs. Treverton. Her voice
failed her when she had pronounced that one
word. She struggled a little, recovered the
power of utterance, and went on: "Swear
that you will not destroy this paper, after I
am dead."

Even while she pronounced those solemn
words, even at that last struggle for life and
strength, the ineradicable theatrical instinct
showed, with a fearful inappropriateness, how
firmly it kept its place in her mind. Sarah
felt the cold hand that was still laid on hers
lifted for a moment—saw it waving gracefully
towards her—felt it descend again, and clasp
her own hand with a trembling, impatient
pressure. At that final appeal, she answered
faintly:—

"I swear it."

"Swear that you will not take this paper
away with you, if you leave the house, after I
am dead."

Again, Sarah paused before she answered
—again the trembling pressure made itself
felt on her hand, but more weakly this time,
—and again the words dropped affrightedly
from her lips;—

"I swear it."

"Swear," Mrs. Treverton began for the
third time. Her voice failed her once more;
and, now, she struggled vainly to regain the
command over it. Sarah looked up, and saw
signs of convulsion beginning to disfigure the
beautiful face—saw the fingers of the white,
delicate hand getting crooked as they reached
over towards the table on which the medicine-
bottles were placed.

"You drank it all," she cried, starting to
her feet, as she comprehended the meaning
of that gesture. "Mistress, dear mistress,
you drank it all—there is nothing but the
opiate left. Let me go—let me go and
call—"

A look from Mrs. Treverton stopped her
before she could utter another word. The
lips of the dying woman were moving rapidly.
Sarah put her ear close to them. At first she
heard nothing but panting, quick-drawn
breaths then a few broken words mingled
confusedly with them:

"I hav'n't done—you must swear—close,
close, close, come close—a third thing—your
master—swear to give it——"

The last words died away very softly. The
lips that had been forming them so laboriously
parted on a sudden and closed again
no more. Sarah sprang to the door, and
opened it, and called into the passage for
help—then ran back to the bedside, caught
up the sheet of note-paper on which she |had
written from her mistress's dictation, and hid
it in her bosom. The last look of Mrs.
Treverton's eyes fastened sternly and reproachfully
on her as she did this, and kept their
expression, unchanged, through the momentary
distortion of the rest of the features, for
one breathless moment. That moment passed,
and, with the next, the shadow that goes
before the presence of death, stole up, and
shut out the light of life, in one quiet instant,
from all the face.

The doctor, followed by the nurse and one
of the servants, entered the room; and,
hurrying to the bedside, saw at a glance that
the time for his attendance there had passed
away for ever. He spoke first to the servant
who had followed him.

"Go to your master," he said, "and beg
him to wait in his own room until I can come
and speak to him."

Sarah still stood—without moving, or
speaking, or noticing any one—by the
bedside.

The nurse, approaching to draw the
curtains together, started at the sight of her
face, and turned to the doctor.

"I think this person had better leave the
room, sir?" said the nurse, with some
appearance of contempt in her tones and looks.
"She seems unreasonably shocked and terrified
by what has happened."

"Quite right," said the doctor. "It is best
that she should withdraw. Let me recommend
you to leave us for a little while," he
added, touching Sarah on the arm.

She shrank back suspiciously, raised one of
her hands to the place where the letter lay
hidden in her bosom, and pressed it there
firmly, while she held out the other hand for
a candle.

"You had better rest for a little in your
own room," said the doctor, giving her a candle.