Her cousin was in her own room safe with a novel, and there was Mewks fast asleep in an easy-chair in the study, with the doors of the dressing-room and chamber ajar! She crept into the sick-room.

There was the tumbler with the medicine! and her fingers were on the vial in her pocket.

The dying man slept.
She drew near the table by the bed.

He stirred as if about to awake.
Her limbs, her brain seemed to rebel against her will .-- But what folly it was! the man was not for this world a day longer; what could it matter whether he left it a few hours earlier or later?
The drops on his brow rose from the pit of his agony; every breath was a torture; it were mercy to help him across the verge; if to more life, he would owe her thanks; if to endless rest, he would never accuse her.
She took the vial from her pocket.

A hand was on the lock of the door! She turned and fled through the dressing-room and study, waking Mewks as she passed.