Not Monica, at least. Conrad had been to her as the evil genius of one crisis of her life—of more had she but known it. She had said in her heart that she could never forgive him, that she would never voluntarily look upon his face again, and yet here he lay dying beneath her roof, and she was with him. She could not, when it came to the point, leave him to die alone, with only a stranger beside him. He might never know, his eyes would probably never open to the light of this world again; but she should know, and in years to come, when time should, even more than now, have softened all things to her, she knew that she should be glad to think she had shown mercy and compassion towards one in death, who had shown himself in life her bitterest foe. Very solemn thoughts filled her mind as she sat in that quiet room, in which a strong young life was quickly ebbing away. Would the sin-stained soul pass into the shadowy land of the hereafter in silence and darkness, without one moment for preparation—perhaps for repentance? Would some slight gleam of consciousness be granted? would it be vouchsafed to him to wake once more in this world, to give some sign to the earnest, silent watcher whether he had tried to make his peace with God before he was called to his last account? The lamp burned low—flickered in its socket. That strange blue _film_, the first forerunner of the coming day, stole solemnly into that quiet room. Suddenly Monica became aware that Conrad’s eyes were open, and fixed intently upon her face. She rose and stood beside him. “You are here?” he said, in a strange low voice. “I felt that you would hear me call—and would come. I knew I could not—die—till I had told you all.” She did not know how far he was conscious. His words were strange, but his eye was calm and quiet. He took the stimulant she held to his lips. It gave him an access of strength. “Where am I?” he asked. “At Trevlyn.” A strange look flitted over his face. “Ah! I remember now—I fell. And I have been brought to Trevlyn—to die—and you, Monica, are with me. It is well.” She hardly knew what to say, or how to answer the awed look in those dying eyes. He bent a keen glance upon her. “Will it be soon?” he asked; and she knew that the “it” meant death. She could not deceive him. She bent her head in assent, as she said: “Very soon, I think.” His eyes never left her face. His own face moved not a muscle, but its expression changed moment by moment in a way she could not understand. “There is not much time left, Monica. Sit down by me where I can see you. I must make a confession to you before I die.” “Not to me, Conrad,” said Monica gently. “Confess your sins to our Father in Heaven. He alone can grant forgiveness; and His mercies are very great.” “Forgiveness!” the word was spoken with an intensity of bitterness that startled Monica. The horror was deepening each moment in his eyes. She began to feel that it was reflected in her own. What did it all mean?