alk to me," pursued the child, rolling the empty spools
to and fro with her crutch, "for he pities me because I am lame."

"Bless your dear little heart," said Mrs. Corliss, softly stroking the
little girl's curls; "it is seldom poor old master takes to any one as
he has to you."

"Do I look anything like the little child that died?" questioned
Birdie.

A low, gasping cry broke from Mrs. Corliss's lips, and her face grew
ashen white. She tried to speak, but the words died away in her
throat.

"He talks to me a great deal about her," continued Birdie, "and he
weeps such bitter tears, and has such strange dreams about her. Why,
only last night he dreamed a beautiful, golden-haired young girl came
to him, holding out her arms, and crying softly: 'Look at me, father;
I am your child. I was never laid to rest beneath the violets, in my
young mother's tomb. Father, I am in sore distress--come to me,
father, or I shall die!' Of course it was only a dream, but it makes
poor Mr. Hurlhurst cry so; and what do you think he said?"

The child did not notice the terrible agony on the old housekeeper's
face, or that no answer was vouchsafed her.

"'My dreams haunt me night and day,' he cried. 'To still this wild,
fierce throbbing of my heart I must have that grave opened, and gaze
once more upon all that remains of my loved and long-lost bride, sweet
Evalia and her little child.' He was--"

Birdie never finished her sentence.

A terrible cry broke from the housekeeper's livid lips.

"My God!" she cried, hoarsely, "after nearly seventeen years the sin
of my silence is about to find me out at last."

"What is the matter, Mrs. Corliss? Are you ill?" cried the startled
child.

A low, despairing sob answered her, as Mrs. Corliss arose from her
seat, took a step or two forward, then fell headlong to the floor in a
deep and death-like swoon.

Almost any other child would have been terrified, and alarmed the
household.

Birdie was not like other children. She saw a pitcher of ice-water on
an adjacent table, which she immediately proceeded to sprinkle on the
still, white, wrinkled face; but all her efforts failed to bring the
fleeting breath back to the cold, pallid lips.

At last the child became fairly frightened.

"I must go and find Rex or Mr. Hurlhurst," she cried, grasping her
crutch, and limping hurriedly out of the room.

The door leading to Basil Hurlhurst's apartments stood open--the
master of Whitestone Hall sa