"Silence, you mad woman! Do you want to bring them here? Do you want to have me dragged away like some miserable prisoner?" "Oh, master--dear master," sobbed the frightened woman piteously, as the hand was removed from her lips, and she sank at North's knees and embraced them. "What does it all mean?--what does it all mean?" "What does all what mean?" "All that noise--that noise?" sobbed the housekeeper in a broken voice. "Have you--have you killed him?" "Killed him?" cried North harshly. "Killed whom? There is no one here." "There is--there is, sir. I heard it all." "Hush!" cried North. "Listen. Is any one coming? Did they hear in the kitchen?" "No, sir. I couldn't bear for any one else but me to hear it all," sobbed the trembling woman. "I went back and shut the door." "Then no one has heard--no one knows--but you?" "No, sir." "My cousin?" "He has gone out, sir." "Hah! Then it is a secret still," muttered North. The old housekeeper struggled to her feet, for his words and manner horrified her. She alone had heard what had taken place, and it seemed to her that within a few steps her master's victim must be lying prone, and that even her life was not safe now. Her first instinct was to make for the door, but he had hold of her wrist, and she sank once more at his feet, with a low sobbing cry. "I'm an old woman, now," she cried, "and a year or two more or less don't matter much." The same harsh, mocking laugh broke out again, chilling her to the marrow, and then North uttered a hoarse, harsh expiration of the breath, and stamped his foot angrily. Then there was a pause, broken only by the old woman's painful sobs. "My poor old Milt," said North gently, as he raised her from the ground. "Why, what were you thinking--that I would do you any harm?" "I--I couldn't help it, sir; but--but I don't think so now. Oh, master--dear master, I thought you had killed some one. What does it mean?--what does it mean?" He did not answer for a few moments, and when he spoke again there was an indescribable, mournful sadness in his voice. "What are you thinking?" he said. She answered with a sob. "I'll tell you," he said; "you think that I am mad." "No, no, no! master--my great, clever, noble master," cried the old woman passionately. "Only ill--only very ill; and you can cure yourself. Yes, yes; pray say that you can!" "No," he said bitterly. "No. It has come to the worst. There, go: I am worn out, and want to rest." "But you will let me help you, dear," she said, speaking with the tenderness of a mother towards the boy she worshipped with a lavish love. "Let me do something--let me help you, dear. It is overwork. Your poor brain is troubled. Let me open the window, and let in light and air, and then you shall go to bed; and I'll bathe your poor head, and you shall tell me what to mix. You know how I can nurse and tend you now you are ill."