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“How horrible! what shall we do?” she cried, with a gesture full of energetic indignation.

“Leave him to remorse!” replied the doctor, sternly.”I’ve thought over the matter, and believe this to be the only thing we can do. I fancy the man won’t live a week; his leg is in a bad way, and he is such a fiery devil he gives himself no chance. Let him believe he killed poor Murry, at least for a few days. He thinks so now, and tries to rejoice; but if he has a human heart he will repent.”

“But he may not. Should we not tell of this? Can he not be punished?”

“Law won’t hang a dying man, and I’ll not denounce him. Let remorse punish him while he lives, and God judge him when he dies. Murry pardoned him, can we do less?”

Mercy’s indignant face softened at the name, and for Murry’s sake she yielded. Neither spoke of what they tried to think the act of a half-delirious man; and soon they could not refuse to pity him, for the doctor’s prophecy proved true.

Clay was a haunted man, and remorse gnawed like a worm at his heart. Day and night he saw that tranquil face on the pillow opposite; day and night he saw the pale hand outstretched to him; day and night he heard the faint voice murmuring kindly, regretfully, “I forgive him; but I wish he had spared me, for Mary’s sake.”

As the days passed, and his strength visibly declined, he began to suspect that he must soon follow Murry. No one told him; for, though both doctor and nurse did their duty faithfully, neither lingered long at his bedside, and not one of the men showed any interest in him. No new patient occupied the other bed, and he lay alone in the recess with his own gloomy thoughts.

“It will be all up with me in a few days, won’t it?” he asked, abruptly, as Jim made his toilet one morning with unusual care, and such visible pity in his rough face that Clay could not but observe it.

“I heard the doctor say you wouldn’t suffer much more. Is there any one you’d like to see, or leave a message for?” answered Jim, smoothing the long locks as gently as a woman.

“There isn’t a soul in the world that cares whether I live or die, except the man who wants my money,” said Clay, bitterly, as his dark face grew a shade paler at this confirmation of his fear.

“Can’t you head him off some way, and leave your money to some one that’s been kind to you? Here’s the doctor or, better still, Miss Carrol. Neither on ’em is rich, and both on ’em has been good friends to you, or you’d ‘a’ fared a deal wus than you have,” said Jim, not without the hope that, in saying a good word for them, he might say one for himself also.

Clay lay thinking for a moment as his face clouded over, and then brightened again:

“Miss Mercy wouldn’t take it, nor the doctor either; but I know who will and, by God, I’ll do it!” he exclaimed, with sudden energy.

His eye happened to rest on Jim as he spoke, and feeling sure that he was to be the heir, Jim retired to send Miss Mercy, that the matter might be settled before Clay’s mood changed. Miss Carrol came, and began to cut the buttons off Murry’s coat while she waited for Clay to speak.

“What’s that for?” he asked, restlessly.

“The men want them, and Jim is willing, for the coat is very old and ragged, you see. Murry gave his good one away to a sicker comrade, and took this instead. It was like him, my poor boy!”

“I’d like to speak to you, if you have a minute to spare,” began Clay, after a pause, during which he watched her with a wistful, almost tender expression, unseen by her.

“I have time; what can I do for you?” Very gentle was Mercy’s voice, very pitiful her glance, as she sat down by him, for the change in his manner, and the thought of his approaching death, touched her heart.

Trying to resume his former gruffness, and cold expression, Clay said, as he picked nervously at the blanket, “I’ve a little property that I put into the care of a friend going North. He’s kept it safe; and now, as I’ll never want it myself, I’d like to leave it too.” He paused an instant, glanced quickly at Mercy’s face, and seeing only womanly compassion there, added, with an irrepressible tremble in his voice, “To little Mary.”