t hands on Mrs. Varrick's burning brow had a
most marvelous effect in soothing her. During the fortnight that
followed she would have no one else by her bedside but Jessie; she would
take medicine from no one else. She called for her incessantly while she
was out of her sight.

"If she recovers, it will all be due to you, Miss Bain," the doctor said
one day.

There came a day when the ravages of the terrible disease had worn
themselves out, and Mrs. Varrick opened her eyes to consciousness. Her
life had been spared; but, ah! never again in this world would any one
look with anything save horror upon her. Her son dreaded the hour when
she should look in the mirror and see the poor scarred face reflected
there.

When she realized that she owed her very life to the girl who had
watched over her so ceaselessly and that that girl was Jessie Bain, her
emotion was great. She buried her poor face in her hands, and they heard
her murmur brokenly:

"God is surely heaping coals of fire upon my head."

On the very day that she was able to leave her couch for the first time,
and to lean on that strong brave young arm that helped her into the
sunny drawing-room, Jessie herself was stricken down.

In those days that had dragged their slow flight by, Mrs. Varrick had
experienced a great change of heart. She had learned to love Jessie a
thousand times more than she ever hated her. And now when this calamity
came upon the girl, her grief knew no bounds.

What if the girl should die, and Hubert should still believe her guilty
of the theft of the diamonds. God would never forgive her for her sin.
There was but one way to atone for it, and that was to make a full
confession.

It was the hardest task of her life when her son, whom she had sent for,
stood before her. When she attempted to utter the words, to lead to the
subject uppermost in her mind, her heart grew faint, her lips faltered.

"Come and sit beside me, Hubert; I have something to tell you," she
said.

He did as she requested, attempting to take her thin, white hands down
from her poor disfigured face.

"Promise, beforehand, that you will not hate me."

"I could not hate you, mother," he said, gently.

Burying her face still deeper in the folds of her handkerchief, while
her form swayed to and fro, she told him all in broken words. At length
she had finished, and a silence like death fell between them. Raising
her head slowly from the folds of her handkerchief, s