Her voice sank into a whisper as she uttered these last words, and then died away. Webster bent nearer, and then grew alarmed. He rang the bell, and the doctor and nurse reappeared, and Webster left the room, but not the house. A profound feeling of melancholy seemed to come over him. A sense of desolation filled his heart. The door of poor Kathleen's wrecked drawing-room was slightly ajar, and he went in and looked around. The flames had blackened and spoilt everything, and the water poured in by the firemen had completed the ruin. He thought of her as she had sat there yesterday--a bright, smiling, handsome woman--and he thought of her now. And her generous words! Her having remembered him amid her own agony touched his very soul. "But she little knows, poor Kathleen--she little knows!" he murmured, half-aloud, as he gazed at the desolate scene. And then he asked himself what he must do. It Kathleen died, John Temple would be free; free to right the wrong that he had done--but would he do it? Naturally Webster thought ill of John Temple, and was not sure how he would act when he heard the wife was dead whom he had forsaken. And then, Temple knew not where to find May. "No one knows where to find her but myself," reflected Webster, and a great struggle took place in his heart. "Shall I again destroy the peace that is just dawning? tell her the man who treated her so vilely is now able to marry her if he will? It would be cruel, and yet, on the other hand, what right have I to judge for her?" None, Webster told himself, as he paced restlessly up and down the deserted room. If May still cared for Temple, he had no right to stand between them; no right to think of his own happiness in comparison to hers. He was still thinking thus when Doctor Lynton entered the room, and Webster looked quickly in his face as he did so. "She has revived a little for the present," said the doctor, in answer to the unspoken question written on Webster's face. "But the action of her heart is extremely weak, arising from the shock to the system, and she will not live over the night." Webster heard this verdict in silence; but the fleeting breath was not stayed even as long as the doctor had thought. A few minutes later the nurse entered the room and addressed Webster. "The poor lady upstairs, sir," she said, "has something to give you before she goes, and I think it won't be long now." "Will it do her any harm my seeing her?" asked Webster, looking at the doctor. "Nothing will do her any harm," answered the doctor, gravely; "from the first there was no hope; and it is only from the original strength and vitality of her constitution that she has lasted so long." So Webster returned to the bedside of the dying woman, and even during the short time of his absence her voice was weaker. It was indeed only a husky whisper now, and he had to bend over her very closely to understand what she said.