faster and plainer than ever. That ghostly
dropping of water is the last and the surest
of the fatal signs which have told of your
father's and your brother's deaths to-night,
and I know from the place where I hear it—
the foot of the bed I lie on—that it is a
warning to me of my own approaching end.
I am called where my son and my grandson
have gone before me: my weary time in this
world is over at last. Don't let Rose and the
children come in here, if they should awake
—they are too young to look at death."

Gabriel's blood curdled, when he heard
these words when he touched his
grandfather's hand, and felt the chill that it struck
to his own—when he listened to the raging
wind, and knew that all help was miles and
miles away from the cottage. Still, in spite
of the storm, the darkness, and the distance,
he thought not for a moment of neglecting
the duty that had been taught him from his
childhood—the duty of summoning the Priest
to the bedside of the dying. "I must call
Rose," he said, "to watch by you while I
am away."

"Stop! " cried the old man, "stop, Gabriel,
I implore, I command you not to leave me!"

"The priest, grandfather—your confession—"

"It must be made to you. In this darkness
and this hurricane no man can keep the path
across the heath. Gabriel! I am dying—I
should be dead before you got back. Gabriel!
for the love of the Blessed Virgin, stop here
with me till I die—my time is short—I have
a terrible secret that I must tell to somebody
before I draw my last breath! Your ear to
my mouth!—quick! quick!"

As he spoke the last words, a slight noise
was audible on the other side of the partition,
the door half opened; and Rose appeared at
it, looking affrightedly into the room. The
vigilant eyes of the old man—suspicious even
in death—caught sight of her directly. "Go
back!" he exclaimed faintly, before she could
utter a word, "go back—push her back,
Gabriel, and nail down the latch in the door,
if she won't shut it of herself!"

"Dear Rose! go in again," implored
Gabriel. "Go in and keep the children from
disturbing us. You will only make him worse
—you can be of no use here!"

She obeyed without speaking, and shut the
again. While the old man clutched him
by the arm, and repeated, "Quick! quick!—
your ear close to my mouth," Gabriel heard
her say to the children (who were both awake),
"Let us pray for grandfather." And as he
knelt down by the bedside, there stole on his
ear the sweet, childish tones of his little
sisters and the soft, subdued voice of the
young girl who was teaching them the prayer,
mingling divinely with the solemn wailing of
wind and sea; rising in a still and awful
purity over the hoarse, gasping whispers of
the dying man.

"I took an oath not to tell it, Gabriel—
lean down closer! I'm weak, and they mustn't
hear a word in that—I took an oath
not to tell it; but death is a warrant to all
men for breaking such an oath as that.
Listen; don't lose a word I'm saying! Don't
look away into the room: the stain of blood-
guilt has defiled it for ever!—Hush! Hush!
Hush! Let me speak. Now your father's
dead, I can't carry the horrid secret with me
into the grave. Just remember, Gabriel—
try if you can't remember the time before I
was bed-ridden—ten years ago and more—it
was about six weeks, you know, before your
mother's death; you can remember it by
that. You and all the children were in that
room with your mother; you were all asleep,
I think; it was night, not very late—only
nine o'clock. Your father and I were
standing at the door, looking out at the
heath in the moonlight. He was so poor at
that time, he had been obliged to sell his
own boat, and none of the neighbours would
take him out fishing with them—your father
wasn't liked by any of the neighbours. Well;
we saw a stranger coming towards us; a very
young man, with a knapsack on his back. He
looked like a gentleman, though he was but
poorly dressed. He came up, and told us he
was dead tired, and didn't think he could
reach the town that night, and asked if we
would give him shelter till morning. And
your father said yes, if he would make no
noise, because the wife was ill and the children
were asleep. So he said all he wanted was to go
to sleep himself before the fire. We had
nothing to give him, but black bread. He had
better food with him than that, and undid his
knapsack to get at it—and—and—Gabriel!
I'm sinking—drink! something to drink—
I'm parched with thirst!"

Silent and deadly pale, Gabriel poured some
of the cider from the pitcher on the table into
a drinking cup, and gave it to the old man.
Slight as the stimulant was, its effect on him
was almost instantaneous. His dull eyes
brightened a little, and he went on in the
same whispering tones as before.

"He pulled the food out of his knapsack
rather in a hurry, so that some of the other
small things in it fell on the floor. Among
these was a pocket-book, which your father
picked up and gave him back; and he put it
in his coat pocket—there was a tear in one
of the sides of the book, and through the
hole some bank-notes bulged out. I saw
them, and so did your father (don't move
away, Gabriel; keep close, there's nothing in
me to shrink from). Well, he shared his
food, like an honest fellow, with us; and then
put his hand in his pocket, and gave me four
or five livres, and then lay down before the
fire to go to sleep. As he shut his eyes,
your father looked at me in a way I didn't
like. He'd been behaving very bitterly
and desperately towards us for some time
past; being soured about poverty, and your
mother's illness, and the constant crying out