"Why?" snapped Mrs. Harrington. "To come and make love to you? Leave that to Agatha. She has been teaching them both to do that for the last three years. Her idea is to marry the one who gets my money. I've known that all along." Eve's dark eyes hardened suddenly. She could not believe what the doctor had told her five minutes earlier. Five minutes--one-twelfth part of Mrs. Harrington's life ebbed away. "Pray do not talk like that," said the girl quietly. Mrs. Harrington's cold grey eyes fell before Eve's glance of mingled wonder and contempt; her right hand was feebly plucking at the counterpane. Far below, in the basement, a bell rang, and soon after there was a step on the stairs. "Who is that?" inquired Mrs. Harrington. "Fitz." The dying woman was looking at the door with an unwonted longing in her eyes. "You seem to know his step," she said, with a jealous laugh. Eve said nothing. The door opened, and Fitz came in. Mrs. Harrington was the first to speak. "I am not well this morning, dear," she said. "I sent for you because I have a few things I want you to do for me." "Pleasure," murmured Fitz, glancing at Eve. He either did not know how ill Mrs Harrington was, or he did not care. It is probable that these two persons now at the dying woman's bed were the only two people who would be in any degree sorry at her death. Eve, with a woman's instinct, busied herself with the pillow--with the little adjuncts of a sick-room which had already found their way to the bedside. She looked at Mrs. Harrington's face, saw the hard eyes fixed on Fitz, and something in the glance made her leave the room. "Just leave me alone," the dying woman said peevishly as Eve went away; "I don't want a lot of people bothering about." But Fitz stayed, and when Eve had closed the door the sudden look of cunning that came over the faded face did not appear to surprise him. "Quick!" whispered Mrs. Harrington, "quick! I do not believe I am dying, as that doctor said I was, but it is better to make sure. Open the left-hand drawer in the dressing-table; you will find my keys." Fitz obeyed her, bringing the bunch of keys, rusty and black from being concealed in a thousand different hiding-places. "Now," she said, "open that desk; it was--your father's. Bring it here. Be quick! Some one may come." Her shrivelled fingers fumbled hastily among some old papers. Finally she found an envelope, brown with age, on which was written, in her own spidery handwriting, "Recipe for apple jelly." She thrust the envelope into Fitz's hands, and he smilingly read the superscription. "That's nothing," she explained sharply; "that's only for the servants. One cannot be too careful. Inside there is some money. I saved it up. It will help to furnish your new cabin." "Thank you," said Fitz, looking critically at the envelope. "But--"