"Then came the last day"--Nannie could not keep the tears back any longer; "the last day; but it was too late to do anything about the will. Why, she could hardly speak, it was so near the--the end. And then all of a sudden she remembered that certificate. And she opened her eyes and looked at me with such relief, as if she said to herself, 'I can give him that!' And she told me to bring it to her. And she kept saying, 'Blair--Blair--Blair.' And oh, it was pitiful to see her _hurry_ so to write your name! And then she wrote it; but before she could sign her name, her hand sort of--fell. And she tried so hard to raise it so she could sign it; but she couldn't. And she kept muttering that she _had_ written it 'many times, many times'; I couldn't just hear what she said; she sort of--mumbled, you know. Oh, it was dreadful!" "And then?" Blair said, breathlessly. Nannie was speechless. "Then?" he insisted, trembling. "Then . . . she died," Nannie whispered. "But the signature! The signature! How--" "In the night, I--" She stopped; terror spread over her face as wind spreads over a pool. "In the night, at three o'clock, I came down-stairs and--" She stopped, panting for breath. He put his arm around her soothingly. "Try and tell me, dear. I didn't mean to be savage." His face had relaxed. Of course it was dreadful, this thing Nannie had done; but it was not so dreadful as the thought that he had taken money intended for David Richie. When he had quieted her, and she was able to speak again, she told him just what she had done there in the dining-room at three o'clock in the morning. "But didn't you know it was wrong?" he said; "that it was a criminal offense!" He could not keep the dismay out of his voice. "I did it for Mamma's sake and yours," she said, quailing. "Well," he said, and in his relief at knowing that he need not think of David Richie, he was almost gay--"well, you mustn't tell any one else your motive for committing a--" Nannie suddenly burst out crying. "Mamma wouldn't say that to me," she said, "Mamma was never cross to me in her whole life! But you and Mr. Ferguson--" she could not go on, for tears. He was instantly contrite and tender; but even as he tried to comfort her, he frowned; of course in the end he would suffer no loss, but the immediate situation was delicate and troublesome. "I'll have to go and see Mr. Ferguson, I suppose," he said. "You mustn't speak of it to any one, dear; things really might get serious, if anybody but Mr. Ferguson knew about it. Don't tell a soul; promise me?"