The poor creature made several ineffectual efforts to articulate, and finally said, in an imperfect way: “I—am—getting—well—fast.” “Is she delirious?” inquired Em., in a whisper and with a startled look at the doctor. “Oh, no, it is her way of speaking. She means that she is going—dying. Hush! She is trying to speak to you again. Bend low—bend your ear to her lips.” The girl obeyed. “Em.,” muttered the woman, so imperfectly that the listener could scarcely recognize her own name. “Em., my child.” “Yes, Aunty Whitlock. I am listening—I hear.” “Have I been—good to you—my dear?” she asked, in tones so faint and muffled that Em. scarcely gathered their meaning, but rather divined it, as she answered: “Very, very good to me always, dear Aunty Whitlock.” “I—_did_—save—your life.” “Yes, I know you did, dear aunty! Mother has often told me you did.” A cloud of trouble passed over the face of the dying woman, and her lips writhed in their efforts to utter the next words, which Em. bent her ear and strained her sense to hear. “Yes—but not in that way—not as she thinks—did I save your life.” There was silence and quick breathing for a few minutes, and then, with an effort, she resumed: “When—you know all—forgive—because—I _did_ save your life.” Em. stooped and kissed the old woman, and laid her fresh, living cheek against the faded and dying one. “Now, doctor!” panted the woman. Dr. Willet approached and bent over her. “Let them come—quick—I’m passing.” The doctor administered a restorative, and then left the room to bring the Bruces to the bedside of the fast sinking woman. Em. remained standing by her, rubbing her cold hands. In a few moments the doctor re-entered the room, bearing two lighted candles in his hand, and followed by Commodore Bruce, Leonidas and Emolyn and John and Susan Palmer. The doctor drew a little stand to the bedside and placed the two candles upon it, and laid a folded paper beside them. Then he beckoned Emolyn Bruce to appear. The lady put off her bonnet and shawl and went up to the bedside, closely followed by her husband. The lady bent over the dying woman, saying: “I am very sorry to see you in this way, Mrs. Whitlock. Do you know me?” “You are Emolyn Wyndeworth—I saved your child’s life—I was always good to her—she will tell you so herself.” “What does she mean?” inquired Leonidas, who had caught only one or two words of this faintly muttered speech. Emolyn shook her head in doubt, and Dr. Willet said: “Hush! You will know soon. Let me say a few words. When I came to this woman this afternoon she made a startling confession to me in the presence of John and Susan Palmer. I took the statement down from her dying lips, lest if I had delayed to do so it might have been too late. I took her mark and the signatures of the two Palmers as witnesses. I wish to have her acknowledge this confession to be the truth, under oath. Commodore Bruce, will you administer the oath?”