It must have been half-an-hour after this that Rathbeal touched Robert Grantham's arm impressively. The dews of death were on Billy's forehead, and his lips were moving. "Prue, little Prue!" he murmured. "A girl's pet name, probably," whispered Rathbeal in Robert Grantham's ear. "Yes, Billy, yes," prompted Grantham; "who is little Prue?" "Sweethearts we wos. Little Prue! little Prue!" At this dying boy's mouth Fate was weaving its web; and some miles away Mr. Fox-Cordery was dreaming of the woman he loved and the friend he had ruined. "Where does she live, Billy?" "We wos sweethearts. I liked little Prue." "Try and remember where she lives, Billy." "Is that you speaking, Mr. Gran?" "Yes, my boy. Do you understand what I say?" "I don' know. 'Now you go away and pray as 'ard as ever yer can,' the old woman ses, and I goes away and tosses up for it. 'Eads, salwation; tails, t'other. And down it comes--tails. Just like my luck. But there's something I _do_ want to pray for! It's all I can do for 'im, and he ses Gawd'll 'ear a pore boy. So 'ere goes. Where's my ha'penny to toss with? No, I don't mean that. I mean Gawd, are yer listenin'?" "Say your prayer, Billy," whispered Grantham, seeing that the lad's last moments had come; "God is listening to you." "O Lawd Gawd!" prayed Billy, pausing painfully between each word; "give Mr. Gran all he wants, and a bit over. Look out! I am going to turn the corner." A few moments afterward Billy had turned the corner, and was traveling on the road of Eternity, with angels smiling on him. CHAPTER VIII. The Gambler's Confession.