"Didn’t you know he was dead?" asked the sick woman, in that strangely hoarse voice. "No," said Dawn, shuddering. Everybody seemed to be dying. Would she die, too? She hurried to the old medicine closet and in a moment returned with the camphor bottle and some lumps of sugar, and administered several drops of camphor. The patient’s hands were cold and blue. Dawn tucked her up with blankets warmly. "You lie still," she said in a business-like tone. "I’ll get some hot water bottles for your hands and feet, and then I’ll call the doctor." "It isn’t worth while for you to stay here and get the cholera," said the woman plaintively. "I’m not going to get over it. I’ve known it all night. It was coming on yesterday. I tried to straighten up the house, but I was too dizzy and weak. The servants all went away when they heard me say I didn’t feel well. There have been several other cases——" But Dawn did not hear all her step-mother said, for she had hurried down to get a fire started. It was no easy task for her unaccustomed hands to strike the fire from the tinder-box, and after one or two fruitless efforts she decided to waste no more time, but to run to the neighbor’s and borrow a kettle of water, at the same time sending a message for the doctor. She was terribly frightened by her step-mother’s appearance, and knew she must be very ill indeed. It seemed as if all possible haste was necessary if she would help to save her life. Upstairs, the sick woman was tossing and moaning. The sudden appearance of the girl who had been the occasion of so much trouble in her life seemed to make the agony all the greater. She knew that she was face to face with death, and now to have the girl she had injured meet her almost on the threshold of the other world, and minister to her, was double torment. If only she could do something to make amends for the wrong she had done, before she left the world and went to meet her just retribution! Her fevered brain tried to think. What was there she could do? The girl had come, and would probably take the disease and die. Her husband might never know she was here. No one would find it out until she was dead. If only she—Mrs. Van Rensselaer—had some way of letting Charles Winthrop know that his wife had come home. If she could get up and go out into the street and beg some one to take him a message! But her strength was gone, and the agony might come upon her at any moment. She would have to do it at once, or the girl would return and stop her. Could she try?