“I did--to comfort him, to make him believe that it was not true.” “By a lie! And such a lie--a shameful lie, when you knew so different! And how should any one believe now a word you say?” “Oh, don’t let her say such things to me, Miller, Miller!” cried the patient, with the cry of a sick child. “Madam,” said the maid, “she’s very bad, as you see, and you’re making her every minute worse. You can see it yourself. It’s my duty to ask you to go away.” Miss Bethune rose from the side of the bed like a ghost, tall and stern, and towering over the agitated, weeping woman who lay back on the white pillows, holding out supplicating hands and panting for breath. She stood for a moment looking as if she would have taken her by the throat. Then she gave herself a little shake, and turned away. Once more the invalid clutched at her dress and drew her back. “Oh,” she cried, “have mercy upon me! Don’t go away--don’t go away! I will bear anything. Say what you like, but bring me Dora--bring me Dora--before I die.” “Why should I bring you Dora? Me to whom nobody brings---- What is it to me if you live or if you die?” “Oh, bring me Dora--bring me Dora!” the poor woman wailed, holding fast by her visitor’s dress. She flung herself half out of the bed, drawing towards her with all her little force the unwilling, resisting figure. “Oh, for the sake of all you wish for yourself, bring me Dora--Dora--before I die!” “What have you left me to wish for?” cried the other woman; and she drew her skirts out of the patient’s grasp.