“I must see him, Luke. There is something which he should know before I die--something of the greatest importance to others besides himself. Do, pray, send for him. It does not matter what yon senseless doctor says; I can feel I am dying, and I durst not die without seeing Mr. Tallant.” So Luke communicated this strange intelligence to Mr. Tallant, and that gentleman proceeded at once to the farm. “Oh, how ill you look, sir; how much you are changed,” said the sick woman, when Mr. Tallant appeared. Mr. Tallant paid no heed to the remark, but sat down upon the nearest chair, and asked what she had to say to him. “I am dying, sir, I am dying,” said Mrs. Somerton. “I hope not,” said Mr. Tallant; “you look ill and excited, but not like dying.” “They all say that,” she replied; “but sometimes the patient knows more than the doctors. Luke and Amy, will you leave me with Mr. Tallant; I have something to say to him. You will know of it hereafter, but don’t stand by and hear me confess my own wickedness. I am going to confess in time for a great wrong to be remedied--that is something in the way of atonement.” Mr. Somerton and his daughter exchanged looks of blank astonishment, and left the room. “Yes, yes, that is some comfort. There’s little good exposing a wrong when it cannot be remedied,” the sick woman went on, as if communing with herself. “The very thought does me good; I shall feel easier when the load is off my mind.” “What is this secret, Sarah?” Mr. Tallant asked, and his thoughts wandered back to the time when she acted as his housekeeper; the sound of her Christian name coming from his own mouth seemed like the revival of an old memory. “Are they gone?” she asked. “Yes,” said the merchant; “do not delay; I have business letters of importance to write for post.” “You would not think I was a very ambitious woman, Mr. Tallant; it is true, nevertheless. I was vain and full of being great when I was a girl, and all my life long I seem to have been going backwards instead of onwards. Nothing has come about as I expected.” “We have all our disappointments,” said Mr. Tallant, dryly; “I hope you are not going to recount all yours.” “How hard you are, sir; how little you seem moved by my wretched position. Have you no fears concerning this confession I am about to make?” “None,” said the merchant; “my troubles are about over. You can’t hit me any harder than I have been hit already, whatever you may have to tell.” “You remember your second wife,” went on the woman, half raising herself in bed; “you remember her dark eyes, and her graceful, ladylike form. You remember how she wore her dark hair, and how musical her voice was?” The merchant did remember. The loss of this woman had been the saddest episode in his life. “Have you never seen any one like her?” the sick woman asked, looking steadfastly at him. “Never,” he replied; “but why all this mystery?--go straight to the point, my dear woman, at once, or I must leave you.”