She heard him, although his voice was faint and low, and entered the room. Alarmed by the traces of illness in his face, she hastened to his side. "You are ill," she said, assisting him to a seat. "Can I do any thing for you?" "Yes," he answered. "You can do much. You can be my friend." "Your friend!" she exclaimed. Had she not always been his friend? But there was a deeper meaning in his voice than she had ever heard before, and his appeal sent thrills of pleasure to her heart. "I am ill," he continued; "but it is more from weakness than any thing else. I am not in pain. A dizziness seizes me, as it seized me just now, and I feel as if my senses were leaving me. I can scarcely stand; and I have no one to trust to." "Not Minnie?" she said softly and wonderingly. "Hush! Minnie, of all others, must not be told of this. Can I trust you?" "I would work till I dropped to serve you." A flush came into his face. "To serve me and Minnie?" he said. "Yes; to serve you and Minnie." "Give me your sacred promise that what passes between us now will never be divulged, will never be spoken of, by you, unless my tongue is sealed, and the time comes when it may be necessary to speak." "Does it concern you?" she asked with a natural hesitation; for there was a feverishness in his manner that alarmed her. "It concerns me and Minnie." "I promise." "Faithfully and sacredly?" "Faithfully and sacredly." He took her hand and pressed it, and then gave her the letter, and asked her to read it. It contained but a few words, but they were sufficient to cause a look of horror to start into her eyes. "Can it be true?" she asked, more of herself than of him and her trembling lips turned white and parched in an instant. "Susan," said Basil Kindred, "I have lived long enough in the world to know its falseness. In years gone by, men have smiled in my face and shaken me by the hand, and I have learned afterwards, that while their manner spoke me fair, there was treachery in their hearts. My life has been a hard one, what with false friends and bitter poverty; but I bore it all patiently, and lived--lived, when a hundred times voices have whispered in my ear, 'Die, and be at peace!' I had an object to live for--Minnie, my darling child! So I lived and suffered, rather than die and leave her unprotected. It was a bitter, bitter life. You can guess how hard a thing it was for me to find food for her, and how often she had to go without it, before the day when you and that boy--I cannot utter his name--came to our rescue. From that time until this dark cloud"--he placed his hand on the letter--"fell upon me, I have been happy. And now, when I need all my strength to fulfil my duty as a father--when it seems to me a crime that I should allow her to go from my side--this weakness strikes me down." "Does she know?" "She knows and must know, nothing. But she must be watched. If there be no truth in this letter--and there may not be"--