Mr. Dinsmore had had some conversation with him, in a general way, about
the matter previous to this, and so he had drawn up the instrument to
cover every point that he could think of. He read it aloud, and Mr.
Dinsmore signified his satisfaction with it, and yet he looked troubled,
as if it did not quite cover all that he desired.

Doctor Hammond and the housekeeper were summoned to act as witnesses;
then Mr. Graves placed the pen, filled with ink, within the sick man's
fingers, for him to sign the will. But he could not hold it--there was
no strength, no power in them.

In vain they clasped them around it, and urged him to "try;" but they
instantly fell away, the pen dropped upon the snowy counterpane making a
great, unsightly blotch of ink, and they knew that he was past putting
his signature, or even his mark, to the will.

As he himself realized this, a shrill cry of despair burst from him, and
the next instant he lapsed into unconsciousness from a second stroke.

"The end has come--he will not live an hour," gravely remarked Doctor
Hammond, as his skilled fingers sought the dying man's feeble pulse.

In half that time Walter Dinsmore was dead, and Mona Montague was alone
in the world.

We will pass over the next few days, with their mournful incidents and
the despairing grief of the beautiful girl, who had been so sadly bereft,
to the morning after the funeral ceremonies, when Mr. Graves, with Mr.
Dinsmore's unsigned will in his pocket, called to consult with Mona