Quickly summoning the servants, they raised her from the floor. It was something more than a mere fainting fit. The poor old lady had fallen face downward on the floor, and upon the sharp point of the scissors she had been using, which had entered her body in close proximity to her heart. The wound was certainly a dangerous one. The surgeon, who was quickly summoned, shook his head dubiously. "The wound is of the most serious nature," he said. "She can not possibly recover." "I regret this sad affair more than I can find words to express," said Basil Hurlhurst, gravely. "Mrs. Corliss's whole life almost has been spent at Whitestone Hall. You tell me, doctor, there is no hope. I can scarcely realize it." Every care and attention was shown her; but it was long hours before Mrs. Corliss showed signs of returning consciousness, and with her first breath she begged that Basil Hurlhurst might be sent for at once. He could not understand why she shrunk from him, refusing his proffered hand. "Tell them all to leave the room," she whispered. "No one must know what I have to say to you." Wondering a little what she had to say to him, he humored her wishes, sending them all from the room. "Now, Mrs. Corliss," he said, kindly drawing his chair up close by the bedside, "what is it? You can speak out without reserve; we are all alone." "Is it true that I can not live?" she asked, eagerly scanning his face. "Tell me truthfully, master, is the wound a fatal one?" "Yes," he said, sympathetically, "I--I--am afraid it is." He saw she was making a violent effort to control her emotions. "Do not speak," he said, gently; "it distresses you. You need perfect rest and quiet." "I shall never rest again until I make atonement for my sin," she cried, feebly. "Oh, master, you have ever been good and kind to me, but I have sinned against you beyond all hope of pardon. When you hear what I have to say you will curse me. Oh, how can I tell it! Yet I can not sleep in my grave with this burden on my soul." He certainly thought she was delirious, this poor, patient, toil-worn soul, speaking so incoherently of sin; she, so tender-hearted--she could not even have hurt a sparrow. "I can promise you my full pardon, Mrs. Corliss," he said, soothingly; "no matter on what grounds the grievance may be." For a moment she looked at him incredulously. "You do not know what you say. You do not understand," she muttered, fixing her fast-dimming eyes strangely upon him. "Do not give yourself any uneasiness upon that score, Mrs. Corliss," he said, gently; "try to think of something else. Is there anything you would like to have done for you?"