The old man cast a single glance at his mistress, shrugged his
shoulders, and, without a word, left the room. But in ten minutes they
were on their way to the county town.

Day was breaking over the distant Burnt Ridge--a faint, ghostly level,
like a funeral pall, in the dim horizon--as they drew up before the
gaunt, white-painted pile of the hospital building. Josephine uttered
a cry. Dr. Duchesne's buggy was before the door. On its very threshold
they met the doctor, dark and irritated. "Then you heard the news?" he
said, quickly.

Josephine turned her white face to the doctor's. "What news?" she asked,
in a voice that seemed strangely deep and resonant.

"The poor fellow had another attack last night, and died of exhaustion
about an hour ago. I was too late to save him."

"Did he say anything? Was he conscious?" asked the girl, hoarsely.

"No; incoherent! Now I think of it, he harped on the same string as he
did the night of the operation. What was it he said? you remember."

"'You'll have to kill me first,'" repeated Josephine, in a choking
voice.

"Yes; something about his dying before he'd tell. Well, he came back to
it before he went off--they often do. You seem a little hoarse with your
morning ride. You should take care of that voice of yours. By the way,
it's a good deal like your brother's."