And early the next morning he sent a telegram to May at St. Phillip's Hospital to say he would be with her by eleven o'clock. May received this telegram with great surprise, for Webster never wrote to her, nor sent telegrams, and when he called it was generally late in the afternoon. But precisely at eleven o'clock a message was sent to her that Mr. Webster was waiting to see her in the sitting-room of the house surgeon, Doctor Brentwood. She accordingly went there, and found Webster standing, looking grave and pale, and so ill that she instantly remarked on it. "Are you not well, Mr. Webster?" she said. "You do not look at all well." Webster scarcely answered her; he had taken her hand, and stood looking in her fair face, and there was great pain and trouble in his heart. "I have some news for you, May," he said at length. He had never before called her "May," and she noticed this and blushed. "News?" she answered. "Not bad news, I hope." Twice he opened his lips, but somehow no words came forth. And his manner was so strange that May grew really alarmed. "What is it?" she said. "Oh! you frighten me--has anything happened?" Then with a great effort he told her. "May, Kathleen Weir is dead." The blood rushed to May's face as she listened to these words, and then died away, leaving her very pale. "Dead!" she repeated; and in an instant it flashed across her mind all that this might mean to her. "Yes," went on Webster, trying to speak calmly, "she died the day before yesterday. It was an accident; she was burned to death." "How dreadful!--and does--he know?" "Yes," again answered Webster. "I saw him yesterday--it was but right that he should know--he is coming to you to-day." May gave a little cry; a little start, as if she were half afraid. "If it is for your happiness," continued Webster with faltering lips, "otherwise, of course--" For a moment or two May did not speak. She stood as if thinking, as if in doubt. Then suddenly she held out her hand to Webster. "It is but right," she said, speaking with an effort. "And you--how am I to thank you for all you have done for me?" Webster's lips quivered. He tried to say some commonplace words. He stooped down and kissed her trembling hand. "Your happiness is--everything to me," he faltered. "I have thought of that alone." And somehow at this moment she understood something of the unspoken feelings of his heart. One of those glimpses into another's soul which came unsought passed through hers. She trembled; she drew away her hand.