ir ears.

"My good woman," said the doctor, bending over the bed, "would you not
like to see a minister?"

She looked at him with her bright, beady eyes, already somewhat dimmed
with the mists of death, and said, in a harsh, low whisper--"Why?"

"Because you have only a short time to live," said the doctor, gently.
"You are dying."

Mother Guttersnipe sprang up, and seized his arm with a scream of
terror.

"Dyin', dyin'--no! no!" she wailed, clawing his sleeve. "I ain't fit to
die--cuss me; save me--save me; I don't know where I'd go to, s'elp
me--save me."

The doctor tried to remove her hands, but she held on with wonderful
tenacity.

"It is impossible," he said briefly.

The hag fell back in her bed.

"I'll give you money to save me," she shrieked; "good money--all
mine--all mine. See--see--'ere--suverains," and tearing her pillow
open, she took out a canvas bag, and from it poured a gleaming stream
of gold. Gold--gold--it rolled all over the bed, over the floor, away
into the dark corners, yet no one touched it, so enchained were they by
the horrible spectacle of the dying woman clinging to life. She
clutched some of the shining pieces, and held them up to the three men
as they stood silently beside the bed, but her hands trembled so that
sovereigns kept falling from them on the floor with metallic clinks.

"All mine--all mine," she shrieked, loudly. "Give me my
life--gold--money--cuss ye--I sold my soul for it--save me--give me my
life," and, with trembling hands, she tried to force the gold on them.
They said no word, but stood silently looking at her, while the two
girls in the corner clung together, and trembled with fear.

"Don't look at me--don't," cried the hag, falling down again amid the
shining gold. "Ye want me to die,--I shan't--I shan't--give me my
gold," clawing at the scattered sovereigns. "I'll take it with me--I
shan't die--G--G--" whimpering. "I ain't done nothin'--let me
live--give me a Bible--save me, G--cuss it--G--, G--." She fell back on
the bed, a corpse.

The faint light of the candle flickered on the shining gold, and on the
dead face, framed in tangled white hair; while the three men, sick at
heart, turned away in silence to seek assistance, with that wild cry
still ringing in their ears--"G--save me, G--!"

CHAPTER XXVIII.

MARK FRETTLBY HAS A VISITOR.

According to the copy books of our youth, "Procrastination is the thief
of time." Now, Brian found the truth