trying all the possible and impossible remedies they had ever
heard of to relieve him. John hoped they were not feeling too unhappy
about it--the squire would doubtless be all right in a few hours.

John lived with his aunt, not far from Squire Shirley's, and, as he
passed the large brick mansion, he noticed that there were many lights
there that night.

Usually there was a light only in the library so late as this. None of
the curtains had been drawn, which was certainly an unusual state of
affairs.

A broad flood of light streamed from one of the front windows toward the
gate. A girlish, uncovered head was leaning dejectedly against the cold,
icy gate-post, and the light turned the fluffy blonde hair into a
shining aureole.

"Miss Kirke!" John exclaimed, in amazement. "What is the matter? Is--is
Squire Shirley worse?"

"Noth--nothing is the matter," faltered Celia, making a few
ineffectual dabs at her tear-swollen eyes with her handkerchief. "That
is--everything is the matter. They have given my uncle an over-dose of
opium. There was too much in the powders, the doctor says--a great deal
more than the prescription calls for. Doctor Pratt is with him now, and
they are trying to keep him awake. If he is allowed to go to sleep, he
will die. They are walking him back and forth, though he implores them
to let him sleep. I couldn't bear to see it any longer, it was too, too
dreadful! Oh, how _can_ people be so criminally careless?"

John turned pale and leaned against the gate for support. Celia's face
became a mere blur before his eyes. What had he done--what _had_ he
done? For, at that moment, the conviction came with terrible force upon
him that he, and he alone, would be responsible for Squire Shirley's
death.

He might blame the poor light--Doctor Pratt's miserable scrawl; but
these were but cowardly subterfuges. John _knew_ that he had been able
to decipher Doctor Pratt's handwriting well enough, but that he had been
thinking of something else while putting up the powders, and so had put
too much opium into them.

Celia looked at his agitated face in wonder. Then she uttered a little
cry.

"You--_you_ did it! It is your fault," she said. "And he was your
friend, and always spoke so well of you."

Then she turned and walked swiftly toward the house.

It was true he and Squire Shirley had become excellent friends that
winter, and the squire had only a few days before asked him if he
thought he should like