"Helen? yes, sir; shall I bring all the papers--or are those you wish
me to burn, numbered?" asked May, taking the candle with her.

"Yes, yes; numbered--1, 2, 3,--1796--1799--1800."

"Here they are, sir."

"Lay them there--under the blaze--so--so--so--perish--so blot out--so
farewell the past. Forgive me the sins of my pride--of my
ignorance--of my avarice--through, the bitter passion of Jesus
Christ--forgive me--as I forgive--all," he murmured, as he watched the
rapid destruction of these records of his life.

"Take a spoonful of this," said May, holding some brandy to his lips.
He drank it, and cast a long, earnest, loving look on her, drew her
face towards his, and kissed her forehead.

"The blessing of Almighty God abide with you, little one; hand me
_that_, now," he said, looking towards the crucifix, "lay it
here--where my eyes can rest on it--so." He never spoke again; but,
with the image of the CRUCIFIED in view, his failing eyes gradually and
softly closed. May thought he slept. So he did, but he slept the
sleep of death.

Helen had fled up to her room, locked the door, and, with a white,
pallid face, and trembling fingers, took the will from her bosom and
opened it.

"To May--to May--to May--beloved niece--I _knew_ it; but May shall