such benefits upon her. It has been her dream that some day she might
reveal the truth, and that gratitude might induce love, but she has
never dared put it to the test. Lately she has not been very well,
and the thought has evidently come to her more than once that she
might die and never accomplish her purpose. I almost think the poor
woman had a premonition. She gave me last night the girl's address,
and she made me promise that in case of her death she should be sent
for. 'I can't bear to think that nobody will come,' she said. Of
course I laughed at her. I thought her very morbid, but--well, I have
telegraphed to the girl to come in time for the funeral. She is in
New York. She and the people with whom she lives have just returned
from the South."

"She must come here," Henry said.

"I could think of no other place," said Horace. "You think Mrs.
Whitman--"

"Of course," Henry said. He started up to speak to Sylvia, but Horace
stopped him.

"I forgot," he said, quickly. "Miss Farrel asked me to promise that I
should not tell the girl, in case of her death before she had an
opportunity of doing so, of what she had done for her. 'Let her come
just because she thinks I am her relative,' she said, 'and because
she may possibly feel kindly towards me. If I can have no comfort
from it while I am alive, there is no need for her to know her
obligation.'"

"It sounds like a mighty queer story to tell Sylvia," Henry said.