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“Min! Min!” he called wildly.

There was no answer. He lifted her in his arms and staggered into the house with his burden, his heart stilling with a horrible fear as he laid her gently down on the old lounge in one corner of the kitchen.

The room was a large one and everything was neat and clean. The fire burned brightly, and a few green plants were in blossom by the south window. Beside them sat a child of about seven years who turned a startled face at Telford’s reckless entrance.

The boy had Min’s dark eyes and perfectly chiselled features, refined by suffering into cameo-like delicacy, and the silken hair fell in soft, waving masses about the spiritual little face. By his side nestled a tiny dog, with satin ears and paws fringed as with ravelled silk.

Telford paid heed to nothing, not even the frightened child. He was as one distraught.

“Min,” he wailed again, striving tremblingly to feel her pulse while cold drops came out on his forehead.

Min’s face was as pallid as marble, save for one heavy bruise across the cheek and a cruel cut at the edge of the dark hair, from which the blood trickled down on the pillow.

She opened her eyes wonderingly at his call, looking up with a dazed, appealing expression of pain and dread. A low moan broke from her white lips. Telford sprang to his feet in a tumult of quivering joy.

“Min, dear,” he said gently, “you have been hurt–not seriously, I hope. I must leave you for a minute while I run for help–I will not be long.”

“Come back,” said Min in a low but distinct tone.

He paused impatiently.

“It is of no use to get help,” Min went on calmly. “I’m dying–I know it. Oh, my God!”

She pressed her hand to her side and writhed. Telford turned desperately to the door. Min raised her arm.

“Come here,” she said resolutely.

He obeyed mutely. She looked up at him with bright, unquailing eyes.

“Don’t you go one step–don’t leave me here to die alone. I’m past help–and I’ve something to say to you. I must say it and I haven’t much time.”

Telford hardly heeded her in his misery.

“Min, let me go for help–let me do something,” he implored. “You must not die–you must not!”

Min had fallen back, gasping, on the blood-stained pillow.

He knelt beside her and put his arm about the poor, crushed body.

“I must hurry,” she said faintly. “I can’t die with it on my mind. Rose–it’s all hers–all. There was a will–he made it–old Gran’ther Palmer. He always hated me. I found it before he died–and read it. He left everything to her–not a cent to me nor his son’s child–we were to starve–beg. I was like a madwoman. When he died–I hid the will. I meant–to burn it–but I never could. It’s tortured me–night and day–I’ve had no peace. You’ll find it in a box–in my room. Tell her–tell Rose–how wicked I’ve been. And my boy–what will become of him? Rose hates him–she’ll turn him out–or ill-treat him–“

Telford lifted his white, drawn face.

“I will take your child, Min. He shall be to me as my own son.”

An expression of unspeakable relief came into the dying woman’s face.

“It is good–of you. I can die–in peace–now. I’m glad to die–to get clear of it all. I’m tired–of living so. Perhaps–I’ll have a chance–somewhere else. I’ve never–had any–here.”

The dark eyes drooped–closed. Telford moaned shudderingly.

Once again Min opened her eyes and looked straight into his.

“If I had met you–long ago–you would have–loved me–and I would have been–a good woman. It is well for us–for you–that I am–dying. Your path will be clear–you will be good and successful–but you will always–remember me.”

Telford bent and pressed his lips to Min’s pain-blanched mouth.

“Do you think–we will–ever meet again?” she said faintly. “Out there–it’s so dark–God can never–forgive me–I’ve been so–wicked.”

“Min, the all-loving Father is more merciful than man. He will forgive you, if you ask Him, and you will wait for me till I come. I will stay here and do my duty–I will try hard–“