Martha studied her reflection in the mirror above the bureau for fully five minutes. Displeased with her slovenly appearance, she let down her hair and, picking up the comb and hair-brush which Miriam had loaned to Mrs. Nash earlier in the evening, she tried several ways of dressing her hair. Mrs. Nash's gold vanity case next attracted her attention and at least ten minutes were consumed in applying first rouge and then powder. Finally she stood back to note the effect upon her complexion. A slow smile of satisfaction stole across her face, and, without the slightest compunction, she transferred a large gob of the rouge to a piece of tissue paper and, folding it many times, stuffed it inside her dress, for future use. Tiring of staring at her own countenance, Martha went over to a large bow window and, leaning on the ledge, peered out into the darkness. Familiar as she was with the location of the bedroom, she knew the direction in which she was gazing, but it was impossible for her to distinguish even an outline of the large modern garage which had been built in the rear of the house some years previously. Corbin had told her that he would return from a trip to Upper Marlboro before ten o'clock, but that she was not to wait up for him as he would occupy one of the servants' bedrooms in the garage, the other having been prepared for Pierre, Mrs. Nash's chauffeur. The weather had moderated with the suddenness which characterizes the disconcerting alterations in temperature in the vicinity of the District of Columbia and southern Maryland. The drip, drip, drip of the thawing snow on the eaves of the house came distinctly to Martha through the half-open window, while the heavy mist, rising from the Patuxent River, on the banks of which the estate of Abbott's Lodge bordered, but made the outer darkness more impenetrable. With a slight shiver, Martha faced about, thankful for the companionable warmth of the carefully shaded light in the bedroom. It was no night for any one to be out, and for the matter of that, it was time that a hard-working woman was allowed to go to bed. Martha's lips quivered as her grievance increased in importance the more she dwelt upon it. Was she never to be considered? Well, she would go. What was Mrs. Nash to her? The master was dead-- "Paul!" The name, pronounced with startling distinctness by Mrs. Nash, caused Martha to clutch the window curtains in sudden fright. In the silence that followed she gathered courage to draw closer to the bed. Mrs. Nash lay with eyes tightly closed and Martha judged from her slow and regular breathing that she was still asleep. A hasty glance about the room convinced her that she and Mrs. Nash were alone. Martha crossed herself devoutly just as the sick woman spoke again. "Paul, can you hear me?" she asked.