o match your pretty face, my little lass. I've not done
right, and I shall never be able to do it now,' said the sick man.

'Yes, you will, father. You will be all right in a few weeks, and you can
make another fortune, and build Balmoral again,' cried Sarah eagerly, as
she impulsively took her father's hand, and then started on finding that
it lay limp in hers.

A spasm passed over the invalid's face at her words; and if Mrs Clay had
not been too much afraid of her husband she would have stopped Sarah and
sent her away. As it was, she gave a little groan from the background, as
much as to say, 'You've done the very thing I told you not to do.'

'There'll never be another Balmoral. It would take me too long, and I
doubt if Clay's Mills will ever be themselves again. I'd like those
fellows to be sent off the minute the contract's done. It'll take them
another week; but I'll be glad to see the backs of them. I wish they'd
never come,' said Mr Clay, who seemed to have a feverish desire to talk.

'They've gone, father,' said Sarah.

But this was too much for Mrs Clay's patience. 'That'll do, Sarah. Your
father's not got to talk business w'ile 'e's so bad.--There, Mark, don't
you worry; everything's going on as well as can be expected,' she said,
in what she thought was a soothing tone.

Her husband waved her aside. 'Let be, Polly! Let the lass speak; I must
know the worst.--So they've gone, the villains! When they thought I was
done for, the rats forsook the sinking ship. Ay, 'twas a bad day for us,
was yon. Well, that ends it! The credit of Clay's Mills has gone for
ever. I'd best not get better. You'll have a little something to live on;
and that's all I've done with my toiling and moiling. I'm best dead,' he
said.

Mrs Clay grasped Sarah's arm in a convulsive grip. 'Don't breathe another
word. I forbid you!'

Sarah felt sure she should do more good by speaking; but she remained
obediently silent.

'It's strange--a sick man's fancy, I suppose--but I thought I heard our
bell. There's no mistaking it. And, hark! there it is again. Am I
light-headed, Polly, or what's that bell I heard?' he asked.

'No, Mark, no, you're not light-headed; it is your own bell. All's goin'
as well as can be expected,' replied poor Mrs Clay.

'What does she mean? Speak up, my lass; why are they ringing my bell?
Speak, I tell you!' he commanded.

So Sarah spoke, and told him what her brother had done.

The mill-owner listened in sil