re her, if she insisted on having her own time at her own
sole disposal for the rest of that day. Exactly as Lady Lundie had
desired, she intimated her resolution to carry her point by placing her
account-book on the desk in the library. It was only when this had been
done that Blanche received any answer to her entreaties for help. Slowly
and deliberately Hester Dethridge walked up to the spot where the young
girl knelt with Anne's head on her bosom, and looked at the two without
a trace of human emotion in her stern and stony face.

"Don't you see what's happened?" cried Blanche. "Are you alive or dead?
Oh, Hester, I can't bring her to! Look at her! look at her!"

Hester Dethridge looked at her, and shook her head. Looked again,
thought for a while and wrote on her slate. Held out the slate over
Anne's body, and showed what she had written:

"Who has done it?"

"You stupid creature!" said Blanche. "Nobody has done it."

The eyes of Hester Dethridge steadily read the worn white face, telling
its own tale of sorrow mutely on Blanche's breast. The mind of Hester
Dethridge steadily looked back at her own knowledge of her own miserable
married life. She again returned to writing on her slate--again showed
the written words to Blanche.

"Brought to it by a man. Let her be--and God will take her."

"You horrid unfeeling woman! how dare you write such an abominable
thing!" With this natural outburst of indignation, Blanche looked
back at Anne; and, daunted by the death-like persistency of the swoon,
appealed again to the mercy of the immovable woman who was looking down
at her. "Oh, Hester! for Heaven's sake help me!"

The cook dropped her slate at her side and bent her head gravely in
sign that she submitted. She motioned to Blanche to loosen Anne's dress,
and then--kneeling on one knee--took Anne to support her while it was
being done.

The instant Hester Dethridge touched her, the swooning woman gave signs
of life.

A faint shudder ran through her from head to foot--her eyelids
trembled--half opened for a moment--and closed again. As they closed, a
low sigh fluttered feebly from her lips.

Hester Dethridge put her back in Blanche's arms--considered a little
with herself--returned to writing on her slate--and held out the written
words once more:

"Shivered when I touched her. That means I have been walking over her
grave."

Blanche turned from the sight of the slate, and from the sight of the
woman, in hor