“Editha not your child!” he said at last, in a strained, unnatural voice, his heart beating with great heavy throbs. “No; not a drop of my blood flows in her veins,” Mr. Dalton panted. His strength was all gone, now that his story was told, and it was with difficulty that he spoke at all. “Who’s child is she, then?” Earle asked, trembling with eagerness, a glad gleam leaping into his eyes in spite of his sad surroundings and his sympathy for the panting form upon the bed. Madam Sylvester now came to the bedside. She had entered so quietly a few moments before that neither Earle nor Mr. Dalton was aware of her presence until this moment. “Mr. Dalton must rest now; he is nearly exhausted,” she said, adding: “I will summon the nurse, and as Editha is still sleeping, and you are doubtless anxious to have the mystery explained, I will finish the story of Editha’s parentage.” Earle instantly arose, and a sudden thought made him glance at her more keenly than he had yet done; then, with a look of sympathy at the panting sufferer, he turned to follow her. Mr. Dalton had seen that look, however, and it stirred his soul to its very depths. He reached out his wasted hand as if to stay him, and said, weakly, while his features writhed in pain: “A good father might have been proud to own you as his son. As it is, I cannot even ask you to take my hand.” Earle turned quickly and bent over him, his manly face softened to almost womanly tenderness and beauty—not from the dawn of any filial affection! that could not be, after all the bitter past—but from pity and compassion for a soul standing alone upon the brink of eternity, with nothing to lean upon as he entered the dark valley of the shadow of death, and no hope in the mysterious future toward which he was hastening. As his humanity would have prompted him to reach out his strong right hand to save either friend or foe in case of danger, so his grand nature yearned to lead this darkened mind into the light of hope. “We will not talk of the past any more,” he said, gently; “It is gone, and it is vain to dwell upon it. The future is what we must think of now.” “The future—my future! What will it be like, I wonder?” Sumner Dalton asked, helplessly, and searching that noble face with painful earnestness, as if he could tell him. “The future means ‘heaven’ to those who are ready for it,” was the grave, dignified reply. “Yes, yes; but to those who are _not_ ready for it?” came breathlessly from the blue lips of the sufferer. “_All may_ be ready for it if they will,” Earle answered, in low, sweet tones. Then seeing how excited Mr. Dalton was becoming, he added: “You must rest now—you have talked long, and are very weary. I will come to you again when you have slept, and we will talk more of this.” “You will stay—you will not go away until—after——” the dying man began, wildly, but finished with a groan. The thought of death was anguish.