Hermia went home that night in a maze of perplexity and wonder. She felt as if she were standing on the verge of some dark mystery which might or might not be presently illumined for her by some unexpected. flash. She knew not what to think, what to do. What, indeed, could she do? She told herself nothing. Next day Mrs. Varrel was perceptibly weaker, and although her mind wandered at times, her voice was so faint that it was only now and then it rose above a whisper. One connected sentence and no more, but one full of significance, reached the ears of the wondering girl. "Thirty--forty--fifty bright new sovereigns. Not one of them will I touch till you have told me where you got them from--not one!" Did she fancy she was addressing her son? If not, whom? It was an hour or two later. Mrs. Varrel had been asleep. Suddenly she awoke, and sat up in bed without help, a thing she had not been able to do for several weeks. The clear light of sanity had come back to her eyes. Laying a hand on Hermia's wrist, she said in a quavering voice. "He won't come now. I feel it--I know it. Before it is too late--and very soon it will be--I have something to give into your charge, Miss Hermy--something which I want you to promise to send to my boy after I'm gone, with just a line to say how his mother longed to see him before she died, but that she loved him to the last in spite of all." Then, after glancing round, although there was no one but themselves in the room, she drew Hermia closer to her and whispered, "It's money--money, my dear Miss Hermy, that I want to give into your charge." "Whatever I can do in the way of helping you to carry out your wishes, Mrs. Varrel, you may rely upon my doing," replied the girl, in her most earnest tones. Thereupon, by the widow's direction, she searched for and found two small packets which had been hidden away between the mattress and the bed. One of them was a stout envelope sealed with red wax, containing some soft substance, the nature of which Hermia was at a loss to make out. The other was a small canvas bag full of money. Then, still by the dying woman's request, she procured paper, and string and made the two up into one parcel, which she addressed to Richard Varrel, at the same place to which the letter had been addressed. "You will send it to him by post, dear Miss Hermy, after I'm gone, won't you, with just a line, as you promised?" gasped Mrs. Varrel. "But seeing that your son has failed to respond to the note I wrote him," replied Hermia, "is it not possible that he may have gone away without informing you; and should that be the case what will become of the money?" "I never thought of that," gasped Mrs. Varrel, with a sudden scared look. "And yet he must have the money--he must! Tell me--tell me, Miss Hermy, what is to be done?"