“Yes, I know. Poverty, disgrace, State prison for life, and how soon? Tell me how soon? He might have time to fly, for I,—I,—he is not good, but I’d rather he did not go to prison. He is my husband, you know. How soon? Tell me truly.” “To-night,—now,—the train is due and overdue. I do not believe he can get away. I think he is watched. Lawyer Russell knows,—not Everard yet; and Mr. and Mrs. Morton are coming to-night with Rossie,” Agnes said, rapidly; and the next moment a wild shriek rang through the house, which Dr. Matthewson heard above the storm, and he came reeling up the stairs from his brandy and cigars, but was sobered at once when he found his wife in the most horrible fit he had ever witnessed. When it was over, and she became conscious again, it was pitiable to see how hard she tried to speak and warn him of his danger, but could not, for the power of utterance was gone, and she only gave forth inarticulate sounds which he could not comprehend any more than he could understand what had affected her so strangely. It was in vain that he appealed to Agnes, who was whiter if possible than her sister, and trembling from head to foot. She was sworn to secrecy,—and if she had inadvertently said to Josephine things which she ought not, she must keep silence before the doctor, and bear the glance of the eyes which looked so imploringly at her, and seemed about to leap from their sockets when she shook her head in token that she could not tell. There were flecks of blood and foam about the pallid lips, and drops of sweat upon the face and hands, the latter of which beat the air hopelessly as the dying woman tried to speak. At last, when they had no more power to move, they dropped helplessly upon the bed, and the white, haggard face grew whiter and more haggard as she lay with ears strained to catch the sound for which she listened so intently, and which came at last in a shrill, prolonged whistle, which was distinctly heard in the pauses of the abating storm, as the train so long delayed swept through the town. Then, summoning all her remaining strength for one last great effort, Josephine raised her arm in the air, and motioning to the door, said to her husband in a voice which was to sound in his ears through many years to come: “Doomed,—doomed,—fl——” She could not finish and say “fly,” as she wished to do, for the word died away in a low, gurgling moan; the white foam poured again from lips and nose, and when the convulsions ceased and the distorted features resumed their natural look, the soul had gone to meet its God. CHAPTER LII. BREAKING THE NEWS TO EVERARD.