A low, gasping cry broke from Mrs. Corliss's lips, and her face grew ashen white. She tried to speak, but the words died away in her throat. "He talks to me a great deal about her," continued Birdie, "and he weeps such bitter tears, and has such strange dreams about her. Why, only last night he dreamed a beautiful, golden-haired young girl came to him, holding out her arms, and crying softly: 'Look at me, father; I am your child. I was never laid to rest beneath the violets, in my young mother's tomb. Father, I am in sore distress--come to me, father, or I shall die!' Of course it was only a dream, but it makes poor Mr. Hurlhurst cry so; and what do you think he said?" The child did not notice the terrible agony on the old housekeeper's face, or that no answer was vouchsafed her. "'My dreams haunt me night and day,' he cried. 'To still this wild, fierce throbbing of my heart I must have that grave opened, and gaze once more upon all that remains of my loved and long-lost bride, sweet Evalia and her little child.' He was--" Birdie never finished her sentence. A terrible cry broke from the housekeeper's livid lips. "My God!" she cried, hoarsely, "after nearly seventeen years the sin of my silence is about to find me out at last." "What is the matter, Mrs. Corliss? Are you ill?" cried the startled child. A low, despairing sob answered her, as Mrs. Corliss arose from her seat, took a step or two forward, then fell headlong to the floor in a deep and death-like swoon. Almost any other child would have been terrified, and alarmed the household. Birdie was not like other children. She saw a pitcher of ice-water on an adjacent table, which she immediately proceeded to sprinkle on the still, white, wrinkled face; but all her efforts failed to bring the fleeting breath back to the cold, pallid lips. At last the child became fairly frightened. "I must go and find Rex or Mr. Hurlhurst," she cried, grasping her crutch, and limping hurriedly out of the room. The door leading to Basil Hurlhurst's apartments stood open--the master of Whitestone Hall sat in his easy-chair, in morning-gown and slippers, deeply immersed in the columns of his account-books. "Oh, Mr. Hurlhurst," cried Birdie, her little, white, scared face peering in at the door, "won't you please come quick? Mrs. Corliss, the housekeeper, has fainted ever so long ago, and I can't bring her to!" Basil Hurlhurst hurriedly arose and followed the now thoroughly frightened child quickly to the room where the old housekeeper lay, her hands pressed close to her heart, the look of frozen horror deepening on her face.