A DEATH BED.

Beatrix rose from her seat at her husband's side and left the room in obedience to Doctor Darrow. Entering the ward where Mrs. Ray was lying, she went to the bedside and seated herself in a chair that stood near. The sick woman's eyes were wide open and fixed upon her face with an eager look of inquiry, as though longing to ask a question which, after all, she feared to put into words. Beatrix bent over the woman's pillow, and her eyes rested kindly upon the white, pain-distorted face.

"You wished to see me, Doctor Darrow says," Beatrix began at once.

A look of eager interest flashed over the sunken features, and one cold hand grasped the girl's arm in a vise-like grip. Her eyes glowed with a wild, supernatural light, her breath came and went in feeble, fitful gasps pitiful to witness.

"Yes—yes; I want to see you. I always want to see you," she panted, brokenly. "Come—come here. There, child, kneel down beside me where I can see your dear face; and—and take me in your arms, Beatrix, won't you? You will surely not refuse my last request?"

"No, indeed. If I can ease your pain in any way, or do anything for you, I will be so glad."

Beatrix had fallen upon her knees, and pillowed the poor head upon her breast. Something—a strange, unaccountable feeling of something like affection crept into the girl's heart as the worn cheek came in contact with her own.

"What is it?" she asked, softly; "tell me."

Celia Ray's eyes studied the beautiful face.

"It seems strange," she said, softly, after a long survey of every feature, "that you should be so beautiful. Your father is—was, I mean—anything but handsome; and your mother—"

"My mother was a beautiful woman," interrupted Beatrix, hastily. "I have seen her portrait. She was far too lovely to have been my mother."

A strange expression crept over Celia Ray's worn face. She opened her lips as though to speak, but no words passed them.

"Beatrix," she said, softly, after a slight pause, "I have sent for you to ask you to do me a favor. I—I have something serious—of the greatest importance—to say, a confession to make. Will you see that I have a notary and necessary witnesses? This that I wish to say is most important; it must be placed upon paper."

"But"—Beatrix strove to be cheerful—"you will get well, Mrs. Ray. Doctor Darrow says that—"

"Doctor Darrow has acknowledged to me that my chances are small," interrupted Celia, hastily. "And, in any case, I must make this confession. It should have been made long ago, to try and set right a deadly wrong. Beatrix,"—wistfully—"you do not despise or dislike me, do you? You have nothing against me, have you, dear?"

Beatrix looked the surprise which she could not speak.

"I? Good heavens, no! I scarcely know you."

A look of disappointment and pain, which was not all physical, crept over the white, sunken face.

"Small wonder!" she muttered, under her breath; "and whose fault is it, after all?" Then, aloud, she added, eagerly, "I—I wanted to talk to you about this; that was the reason why I did not send for Doctor Darrow. He is good, but, then, he is nothing to me, after all. I am, of course, only one of his patients to him; he feels no personal interest in me or my fate. Beatrix, you will care, you will have some affection for me? Don't look so surprised. I—I knew your mother. I saw you when you were a babe. Many a time I have held you in my arms, for I was your nurse, you know. I was selected to rear you, and also Keith—dear Keith! And now you are his wife? Well, that is as it should be. You did not know that I had nursed you," she went on swiftly, smiling feebly at the look of astonishment upon Beatrix's face; "but Bernard Dane knew, and he will tell you that I am speaking truly. You will send a notary to me, will you not?" she cried, her voice rising shrill and troubled.

Beatrix rose.

"You shall have whatever you wish," she returned. "I will go at once and attend to it."

"Beatrix."

"Yes, dear."

"Will you kiss me?"

No answer; Beatrix turned away. Even though this woman was dying, the girl shrank in her own sensitive way from pressing her lips to those which contagion was powerless now to injure.

"I—can not," she responded. "Mrs. Ray, you do not know—I—am forbidden to kiss any living creature, even my own."

A strange light flared into the sunken eyes.

"God forgive me!" she muttered; "for I alone am responsible for all this."

But before Beatrix could speak an awful spasm of pain seized the woman, and for a few moments it seemed as though the life would leave the frail, pain-racked frame. But after a time the paroxysm passed, and very still and pale, Celia Ray lay back upon the pillow, her eyes closed, her breath coming and going in panting gasps. She opened her eyes at last and fixed them upon Beatrix's face with an eager look, a devouring expression that made the girl's heart throb with a strange sensation which she had never before experienced.

"I have never before felt so strange an influence," Beatrix said to herself, as she met the look of hungry affection from the sunken eyes.

Celia lifted one feeble hand with a gesture toward the door. Beatrix understood.

"I am going now for the notary," she responded at once. "Do you think that you are strong enough to attend—to—see him?"

"Yes, yes. I must be, I will be. It is a matter of vital importance, life or death. Go at once, my child."

There was a strange note of wistful tenderness in the poor, feeble voice—something which touched an answering chord in Beatrix's breast and made her feel strangely sad. She left the room at once, and finding Doctor Darrow, told him of Mrs. Ray's wish to see a notary. The physician looked grave.

"That there is something of great and serious importance upon her mind, I have no doubt," he said, "for I have watched her closely. I believe, from the bottom of my heart, that it is that which retards her recovery. Yet, after all, her recovery is very uncertain; I fear it is out of the question for her, poor soul! I will send a notary and two witnesses," he added, hastening away.

Half an hour later a grave, elderly man entered the ward where Celia Ray lay still and weak, waiting for him to come.

Writing materials were soon brought, and the work began. In a low but perfectly distinct voice, Celia Ray repeated the statement which she wished the notary to transcribe. It took some time, and it was late in the evening before it was concluded, and the paper signed, witnessed, and properly sealed. Then the notary arose to go. The sick woman sighed wearily.

"Give me the document!" she cried, eagerly.

It was placed in her hand.

"Now send for Beatrix!" she demanded, in a loud, shrill tone. "And in the morning—the first thing in the morning—I must see Bernard Dane. I will not have him disturbed tonight, for he is old and does not sleep well. I will wait until morning."

Even in dying, the poor creature studied, first of all the comfort of this man so dearly loved, and who had wrecked her life. But alas! when morning came, poor Celia was gone, and Bernard Dane would never look into her eyes or hear her voice again. She passed away quietly about midnight. The trained nurse sat at her bedside.

"I want Beatrix!" she cried, lifting her head from the pillow. "Send her to me; I need her. It is so dark—so dark and cold! I will hold her hand, and then I shall not be so lonely."

So Beatrix was summoned from her bed, where she had gone, for Doctor Darrow had insisted upon her taking a good night's rest, as it did not seem likely that she would be needed that night.

She came to the bedside of the dying woman. As soon as her eyes fell on the gray, pinched face, Beatrix knew that Celia Ray's journey here was nearly done.

"What can I do for you?" she cried eagerly.

Celia opened her feeble arms.

"Come to me, my baby!" she cried. "Come to the one who has loved you so! Beatrix the clouds are lifting from your life; you will soon be very happy. Tell me, do you hate Serena?"

Beatrix shuddered.

"No; I hate no one," she returned gravely. "It is very wrong to do so. Let us hope that Serena will be sorry for what she has done."

"She will never be sorry—never, until she dies!" panted the dying woman, wildly. "I know her; she is a wicked, cruel woman. She has tried to break your heart, my darling; for she hated you for your beauty, and because Keith Kenyon loved you. She is hard and heartless, cruel and vindictive—a wicked woman—and she deserves her downfall. Beatrix, here is the paper that the notary executed to-night, also some other papers of great importance. I leave all with you. You will open them one month after I am dead. By that time, so Doctor Darrow says, Keith will be fully restored to his former strength and health, and I—shall be forgotten in my lonely grave."

"No, no!" sobbed Beatrix, a strange, desolate feeling touching her tender heart with a pang of suffering, a curious sensation that in some way this woman's life, sad, lonely, ever reaching out for something, one thing unattainable, was in some way connected with her own, "you shall not be forgotten. I will do all that I can."

"I understand. Then my baby will go to see the lonely grave sometimes where poor Celia sleeps—even the name upon the stone a false one. Listen, child; I am not poor, and what I have is all for you."

"But your sister, Mrs. Lynne—" began Beatrix, hurriedly.

"She has never been a sister to me," panted the dying woman, wildly; "and I have carefully concealed from her the secret of my life, because she was not fit to share it. But no matter now; the papers will tell you all. Now I am tired and must sleep. Kiss me, Beatrix; I am dying, and I am—your—"

She strove hard with a mighty struggle to speak another word, but the rigid lips refused to give it utterance. The word which was not spoken in life could never be spoken in death. Beatrix stooped and kissed her. She smiled sweetly and so, smiling, died.