"So soon?" said the dying man. "I did not think----Send for Lady Thetford," he cried, wildly, half raising himself again--"send for Lady Thetford at once!" "We have sent for her," said the doctor; "she will be here very soon. But the clergyman, Sir Noel--the clergyman. Shall we not send for him?" "No!" said Sir Noel, sharply. "What do I want of a clergyman? Leave me, both of you. Stay, you can give me something, Gale, to keep up my strength to the last? I shall need it. Now go. I want to see no one but Lady Thetford." "My lady has come!" cried Mrs. Hilliard, starting to her feet; and at the same moment the door was opened by Arneaud, and a lady in a sparkling ball-dress swept in. She stood for a moment on the threshold, looking from face to face with a bewildered air. She was very young--scarcely twenty, and unmistakably beautiful. Taller than common, willowy and slight, with great, dark eyes, flowing dark curls, and a colorless olive skin. The darkly handsome face, with pride in every feature, was blanched now almost to the hue of the dying man's; but that glittering, bride-like figure, with its misty point-lace and blazing diamonds, seemed in strange contradiction to the idea of death. "My lady! my lady!" cried Mrs. Hilliard, with a suppressed sob, moving near her. The deep, dark eyes turned upon her for an instant, then wandered back to the bed; but she never moved. "Ada," said Sir Noel, faintly, "come here. The rest of you go. I want no one but my wife." The graceful figure in its shining robes and jewels, flitted over and dropped on its knees by his side. The other three quitted the room and closed the door. Husband and wife were alone with only death to overhear. "Ada, my poor girl, only five months a wife--it is very hard on you; but it seems I must go. I have a great deal to say to you, Ada--that I can't die without saying. I have been a villain, Ada--the greatest villain on earth to you." She had not spoken. She did not speak. She knelt beside him, white and still, looking and listening with strange calm. There was a sort of white horror in her face, but very little of the despairing grief one would naturally look for in the dying man's wife. "I don't ask you to forgive me, Ada--I have wronged you too deeply for that; but I loved you so dearly--so dearly! Oh, my God! what a lost and cruel wretch I have been." He lay panting and gasping for breath. There was a draught which Dr. Gale had left standing near, and he made a motion for it. She held it to his lips, and he drank; her hand was unsteady and spilled it, but still she never spoke. "I cannot speak loudly, Ada," he said, in a husky whisper, "my strength seems to grow less every moment; but I want you to promise me before I begin my story that you will do what I ask. Promise! promise!" He grasped her wrist and glared at her almost fiercely. "Promise!" he reiterated. "Promise! promise!" "I promise," she said, with white lips.