Erminie paused, her strength failed, her senses wandered for a moment, her eyes filmed over, and her chin dropped. Was it a swoon? Or was it death? In great disturbance Dr. Sales poured some Cologne water upon a fresh handkerchief, and bathed her head and face, and held it to her nose, that she might inhale the reviving essence. And in a few moments he had the comfort of seeing her draw a deep breath and open her eyes. She did not know that she had fainted, for she took up the sentence just where she had left it off. “For the sake of others, I ought to know my condition, so as to arrange my affairs.” “My child, you are fatiguing yourself too much. Let me entreat you to be quiet.” “No; I must speak—while I can. I feel I have no strength to make any but a verbal will. And Justin is not here. And so—you will listen to me.” “Speak on, then, dear child, but take your time—do not weary yourself.” And with many pauses and rests between her words, Erminie spoke. “You know, dear friend, the large property left me by my uncles?” “Yes.” “Well, if I die without a will, Justin, as my heir-at-law, will come into possession of the whole.” “Certainly.” “And I cannot make a will, but I know that I can trust my dear brother to execute my wishes as conscientiously as if they were expressed in the most legally drawn up testament that ever was framed.” “Indeed you may, my dear,” replied the pastor, as he once more bathed her face and head in the reviving Cologne water. “Well, please tell Justin, then, my last dying wishes.” The doctor took out his note-book and pencil to assist his memory, if future need should be. “I wish Justin to take one third of the whole of my property for himself, and to give a second third to Britomarte Conyers, whom I feel sure that he will eventually marry, and to give the remaining third—” Dr. Sales wrote all this down in his note-book, and then looked up to see why Erminie did not continue. And he saw that she had again grown deadly faint. “Oh, Father in Heaven! she is hastening her own death by all this effort,” cried the pastor, in deep distress, as he threw down his note-book and caught up a bottle of Cologne water and freely bathed her face, head and hands. Again she rallied, smiled, and pointed to the note-book, mutely begging him to take it up and proceed with his work. “My child, my child, you are too feeble for all this exertion. I must insist upon your resting for awhile,” said Dr. Sales. “Rest—long rest—will come very soon. But now—I must go on,” persisted the sinking girl, pointing to the note-book. Dr. Sales shook his head. Erminie turned on him an imploring look, and her eyes filled with tears. “You cannot resist the prayer of the dying, and the most important part of my bequest is behind. The remaining third—” Here, with a sigh, Dr. Sales took up his note-book.