“Yes, sir!” whispered Helen, while her heart throbbed almost to bursting, and a wild gleam of triumph shot across her visage, giving it the fearful beauty of a demon.  She would throw the new will amongst the condemned papers—­it would be consumed with them; he would be silent and cold when it was missed, and could tell nothing; but then, might not she be suspected?  No! she would not burn it—­she would secrete it, and only destroy it in case she was disinherited.  These thoughts rushed through her mind with a strange velocity, while she went towards the closet; and, just as she laid her hand on a package of papers, Mr. Stillinghast, suddenly turning, discovered his mistake.

“Come away—­come away,” he cried, with strange energy, “how dare you go there?  Come away.”

It was the work of an instant to snatch up the new will, thrust it into her bosom, and return, pale, trembling, and almost fainting, to his side.

“I thought you were May; call her here, Helen, then go away,” he said, gently.

“Uncle Stillinghast wants you, May,” said Helen, stooping over, and touching her.

“What can I do for you, uncle?” she said, instantly roused.

“I wish—­you to burn—­some papers—­quick—­quick—­child.  On the second shelf—­there—­in the small closet—­where the wills are. Is she gone?”

“Helen? yes, sir; shall I bring all the papers—­or are those you wish me to burn, numbered?” asked May, taking the candle with her.

“Yes, yes; numbered—­1, 2, 3,—­1796—­1799—­1800.”

“Here they are, sir.”

“Lay them there—­under the blaze—­so—­so—­so—­perish—­so blot out—­so farewell the past.  Forgive me the sins of my pride—­of my ignorance—­of my avarice—­through, the bitter passion of Jesus Christ—­forgive me—­as I forgive—­all,” he murmured, as he watched the rapid destruction of these records of his life.

“Take a spoonful of this,” said May, holding some brandy to his lips.  He drank it, and cast a long, earnest, loving look on her, drew her face towards his, and kissed her forehead.

“The blessing of Almighty God abide with you, little one; hand me that, now,” he said, looking towards the crucifix, “lay it here—­where my eyes can rest on it—­so.”  He never spoke again; but, with the image of the CRUCIFIED in view, his failing eyes gradually and softly closed.  May thought he slept.  So he did, but he slept the sleep of death.

Helen had fled up to her room, locked the door, and, with a white, pallid face, and trembling fingers, took the will from her bosom and opened it.

“To May—­to May—­to May—­beloved niece—­I knew it; but May shall never have it,” she said, through her set teeth, as her eye ran rapidly over it.  “They will think she burned it with those papers.  I am saved—­I shall marry Jerrold!” A mouse gnawing in her wainscot near her, caused her to start up and look around; and there,