“Yes, he is very bad.  He says he is going to die, and I believe it.  He will not last the night out, and of course I must send for you, and he insisted that Mr. Sanford should come too.”

“Yes, certainly; I am glad he did,” the clergyman rejoined, thrusting his hands into his coat-pocket.  “He wishes the communion, I dare say,” and he placed reverently upon the table the little silver service.

Hannah’s face flushed as she replied;

“He did not mention that, I do not suppose he thinks he can receive it.  What he wishes is to see you, to talk to you, to—­to—­”

She hesitated, her brother’s countenance was so forbidding, then added, quickly: 

“’He wishes to tell you something which he has kept for years,” and her voice sank to a whisper as she glanced again at her brother.

It was coming, then, the thing he had suspected so long, and which he never had wished to learn, and Burton Jerrold breathed hard as he said: 

“But surely, Hannah, if there are family secrets to be told, I am the one to hear them, and not a stranger.  Mr. Sanford can have no interest in our affairs.”

“I could not help it, brother,” Hannah said, mildly.  “I tried to dissuade him, but he would not listen, and Mr. Sanford is not like a stranger to us.”

She turned her dark eyes full of tears upon the clergyman, who gave her back an answering glance which her brother did not observe, and would not have comprehended if he had.

“Yes, Hannah,” Mr. Sanford said, “you can trust me; be the secret one of life or death, it is safe with me as with you.”  And he gave her his hand by way of affirmation.

And Hannah took the offered hand and held fast to it as a drowning man holds to a straw, while the tears ran like rain down her pale face.

“Hannah!  Burton!  Are you there, and the minister?  There is no time to lose,” came feebly from the sick-room, and Hannah said: 

“He is calling us; go to him, please.  I will join you in a minute.”

Then she hurried to the summer kitchen, where she found Sam, who thought his work done, and was removing his boots preparatory to going to bed.

“Wait, Sam,” she said.  “I am sorry, for I know you are tired and sleepy, but you must sit up a while longer, and take Mr. Sanford home.  I will bring you an easy-chair in which you can sleep till I want you.”

Thus speaking, she brought a large Boston rocker and a pillow for the tired boy, who, she knew, would soon be fast asleep, with no suspicion of what was about to transpire in the sick-room to which she next repaired, closing the door behind her.  Her father had both Burton’s hands in his, and was crying like a little child.

“Oh, my son, my son,” he said, “if I could undo the past, I should not have to turn my eyes from my own child in shame, and that I have done ever since you were a boy, and came from Boston to see us.  How old was he, Hannah?  How old was Burton when the terrible thing happened?”