The old man lay upon the bed in a slight doze, looking aged and pitiful in his gray hairs and wrinkles, but no pity stirred the heart of the girl who hated him now with a deadly hate. Leaning over the table, with her back to the bed, she emptied into his wine-glass the white powder hidden in her dainty glove, her eyes flashing with a resolute glare. Then she turned back to the bed and touched her victim gently. He started up in a dazed fashion, leaning on his elbow. “Amber, is that you? How you startled me! I must have been asleep.” “I am sorry that I startled you; but I came to tell you that I am ready to go for Cecil,” sweetly. “Ah, yes; bring him quickly, Amber. Tell him it is important,” he sighed, wearily. “Grandpapa, how faint your voice sounds, and how terribly ill you look! Let me give you some wine,” and the beautiful fiend poured the ruby liquid upon the white powder in the glass, furtively shook it up, and presented it with a faltering hand, although she was determined to playfully force it down his throat if he refused it. But the unsuspecting judge took the glass in his hand, and drained a third of its contents before he paused, and said: “Ugh! it is very strong! It burns my throat!” “But it will make you strong. Drink it all, grandpapa,” pleaded Amber, solicitously. “I will--presently,” and he leaned back on the pillow, still holding the wine in his hand. She waited, lingered, but he dallied with the glass, almost driving her wild with impatience. Eager to be gone, and believing that he had already taken a fatal dose, she said, presently: “May I set down the glass for you and go, grandpapa?” “Yes, go; but never mind the wine. I will sip it at my leisure,” he answered; and in her impatience she took him at his word, and flitted out with a ghastly smile, thinking: “He will finish it, every drop, before he puts it down, and probably die before any one else comes into the room. There will be no suspicion of the cause of death, and they will call it heart failure.” In the hall she encountered a maid-servant, and said carelessly: “Hattie, go up stairs and bring down the little satchel inside my door. I am taking my dahlia silk to the village to be altered.” Five minutes later she was driving along the road to the post-office, a dazzling vision that every one turned out to see in her elegant attire and natty equipage. Half a score of obsequious young men darted out of the post-office to hand her from her carriage, and her dazzling smile thrilled them all day like wine. She went past them into the office, but the Camden box was empty, the mail having already been taken. “I see there is nothing for us, but I will take the Grant mail, if you please. I shall be driving past Mr. Grant’s office, and can save him the trouble of walking here,” she said to the postmaster, with her brilliant smile that almost turned his head.