"Madame," he said, "I can do nothing; she is beyond all human skill. Alas, I fear that in a few moments she will pass away." Even Lucy Warrender's hard heart was filled with horror. "Can nothing be done, doctor? can you suggest no remedy? is there really no hope for her?" said Mrs. Haggard. "Alas! no, madame, the mischief has gone too far; it is an old case of heart disease. Did she complain of ill health to you?" "She has never been strong, doctor, and she has had a great deal to trouble her lately," said Lucy. Suddenly, while they were yet speaking, the face of the dying girl assumed a placid expression; the lips trembled convulsively and then a happy smile gradually appeared. The smile remained, the lips gently parted and then the eyes slowly opened, but in them there was no speculation, for Hephzibah Wallis had ceased to breathe; she had peacefully passed away. The faithful girl was gone, carrying with her the carefully guarded secret of her young mistresses. As the French doctor drew the sheet over the dead girl's face, a ghastly smile, almost of satisfaction, might have been seen on Lucy's countenance. Both girls sobbed bitterly; but let us do Miss Warrender justice, her tears were tears of genuine sorrow, but her grief was tempered with a sort of awful content, that now at least her secret was buried in the solemn silence of the grave. The next few days were passed in a sort of melancholy bustle; a letter had to be written to break the painful news to the poor old mother at King's Warren. Poor Hephzibah was buried, her two young mistresses following their faithful servant to the grave. That night Lucy Warrender stole softly into the empty room. With her own hands Miss Warrender carefully went through all the dead girl's little possessions, and she removed every letter and paper to her own room. Then she locked the door and carefully scrutinized everything, but not one scrap of writing did she find which compromised either herself or her cousin in the slightest degree. There were a few notes which had been written to the girl by her mistresses at odd times, and had been carefully treasured by the abigail. There was a little box of carved wood which contained a photograph, the likeness of the faithless Capt. Lucy cast it into the flames, and from the fire, as it turned and twisted like a living thing, the face seemed to glare at her menacingly. There was nothing more save the letter from the vicar's wife. Lucy perused it with a smile, and crushing it into a ball she tossed it into the fire. Then she returned into the dead girl's room and replaced all that remained. Taking a glance at her sleeping cousin, whom her proceedings had not disturbed, she herself quietly retired to rest.