do, I wonder? Oliver might help, perhaps. Oliver isn't so bad, down in his heart. He was fair enough. There's money enough. Francis, when I fall asleep, look in the trunk and hide the money, if you can—don't let them get it away from you! Wait till I'm asleep, though—the key is in my bag. What a fool I was! I might have known. There was my grandmother, she was mad, too. It may stop with me—oh, she was a dear little thing, though!"

"Who was the little girl, Mamsy?" Francis inquired, his curiosity overcoming his fear for her.

"Born with a veil, born with a veil! I was a seventh daughter, too—much good it did me! I could tell others—who could tell me? Bosh! it's all rubbish—we'll never know! fol-de-rol, Francis, it's all gammon—all but Weenie. Weenie knows. Yellow hair, too; it will grow gray soon enough!" Then, as if she had just heard his question she broke our querulously, "Where did you see her?"

"I looked through a crack in the door, Mamsy."

She pulled herself up in a frenzy of anger and shook her finger at him. "Oh, you did, did you? You snooping, sniping monkey! I'll tell you what you were looking at, you were watching the train to New York! You'll go to Toledo, will you? You won't find anything there. Go to New Orleans; there's plenty to find out in New Orleans! In Denver, too, and way stations, but be careful, be careful! I was born in Toledo." She sank back exhausted.

"Don't be worried, Mamsy," said Francis, attempting to calm her. "I won't never go to Toledo, Mamsy!"

"'Won't never'!" She glared at him. "What did I say about double negatives, boy? Two negatives make a positive, two pints make a quart, two fools make a quarrel, two quarrels make a fool. What language! I was at Vassar, too—I was secretary of my class! Oh, I want to see Victoria! She would understand, I'm sure! Oh, Francis!" Her voice dwindled away and her eyes closed.

For a moment she seemed to be asleep. Then a sudden convulsion frightened him. She spoke again without raising her lids.

"Why, there's mother! Come and kiss me, mother! Did Weenie send for you, mother? Oh, Weenie! Who's the old man? Father? I never saw father on this side, did I, Weenie? He passed out when I was very little, didn't he? So many people! Why, the room is full of them! Yes, I'm coming—"

The boy was tugging frantically at her hand, calling to her without ceasing, sobbing in his fright. He succeeded at last in bringing her out of her trance and she opened her eyes to stare at him. Her breath was coming harder. With a great effort she reached for the boy's head and pulled it nearer, gazing into his frightened eyes.

"Poor Francis!" she gasped. "You've been so good, dear—you've been my hope! Felicia Grant's hope! You have no name, dear; take that one, instead of mine—Francis Granthope—oh, this pain!"

"Shan't I get you the medicine?" he asked, sobbing.

"No, it's no use." She pushed him gently away. "I'm going—to sleep—now— Don't call me back, Francis; I want rest. Remember the trunk—good-by!"

She closed her eyes and rolled over on her side, turning her face away from him.

He waited half an hour in silence. Then he put his hands to her arms softly.

"Mamsy!" he said quietly but insistently. "Are you asleep, Mamsy?" There was no answer.

He arose and looked for her leather bag. He found it on the floor where she had fallen. Opening it, he found inside a heterogeneous collection—strings, hair-pins, peppermints, papers, a lock of hair in an envelope, a photograph, several gold pieces, and the key—he took it and tiptoed into the little side room with excited interest. He had never looked inside the trunk before and his eagerness made his hands tremble as he unlocked it.

On top was a tray filled with account-books and papers, letters, folded newspapers and a mahogany box. It was all he could do to lift it to get at what was beneath. He struggled with it until he had tilted it up and slid it down to the floor.

Below was a mass of white satin and lace. He lifted this piece by piece, disclosing a heavy wedding gown, silk-lined, wrapped in tissue paper, and many accessories of an elaborate trousseau—a half-dozen pairs of silk stockings, a pair of exquisite white satin slippers, a box of long white gloves, another of lace handkerchiefs, dozens of mysterious articles of lingerie, embroidered and lace-trimmed. In a lower corner was a little, white vellum, gold-clasped prayer-book.

Lastly he found a package securely wrapped in brown paper; opening this, he discovered six crisp, green packages of bank-notes. These he rewrapped and slid them inside his full blue blouse. Then he put everything back in order, replaced the tray and locked the trunk.

Finally he stole back to the form upon the couch. "Mamsy, are you awake?" he whispered.

There was no answer, and he shook her shoulder slightly. Then, as she made no reply, he leaned over and looked at her face. Her eyes were open, fearfully open, but they did not turn to his. They were set and glazed with film.

A horror came over him now, and he shook her with all his strength.

"Mamsy, Mamsy!" he cried. "Look at me, Mamsy! What's the matter?"

Still she did not look at him, or speak, or move. He noticed that she was not breathing, and his fear overcame him. He dropped her cold hand and ran screaming out into the hall.