Late in the afternoon of the following day, as Webster was leaving one of the law courts where he had been pleading, a gentleman, a stranger, touched his arm and addressed him.

“You are Mr. Webster, the barrister, are you not?” he said.

“Yes,” answered Webster, looking up.

“I am Doctor Lynton,” continued the gentleman, who was a grave-faced, middle-aged man. “I have been to your chambers at the Temple to seek you, and have followed you here. I have come from Miss Kathleen Weir, the actress.”

An annoyed expression passed over Webster’s face.

“And I have come on a sad errand,” went on Doctor Lynton. “A terrible accident happened to Miss Weir last night, and she is lying now in, I fear—nay, I more than fear, I know—a hopeless condition.”

A shocked exclamation broke from Webster’s lips.

“How did it happen?” he asked. “What happened?”

“She accidentally overturned one of those tall floor-lamps, and is dreadfully burned. And she wishes to see you; she sent me to say she wishes to see you before she dies.”

“How terrible!” exclaimed Webster. “Do you mean to tell me there is no hope?”

“Conscientiously, I can hold out none,” answered the doctor. “It is, indeed, a sad case. But can you go to her now? My brougham is waiting for me, and I am going to drive straight back to her house, and if you will come with me I shall be glad—for, poor soul, I fear she is drifting fast away.”

“I will go,” said Webster, unutterably shocked. It seemed almost impossible, this sudden change. The bright woman of last night; the gay rooms, the jests, the laughter, and now to hear of the approaching end.

He scarcely spoke after he entered the doctor’s carriage. He covered his face with one of his hands, and sat thinking what the death of Kathleen Weir might mean. A fair face—sweet, serene, and sad—rose before his mental vision, and unconsciously a sort of groan broke from his lips.

“Did you know her well?” asked the doctor, in a commiserating tone.

“You mean Miss Weir?” answered Webster, trying to rouse himself. “Yes, I have known her for some time.”

“She has seen her lawyer,” continued the doctor, “and made her will. But I do not suppose she has much to leave; these actresses as a rule spend their money as fast as they get it.”

“I do not know,” said Webster, indifferently, for he was not thinking of the actress’ will.

The doctor after this made a remark occasionally, and Webster just replied; and presently the carriage stopped before the handsome mansion where poor Kathleen Weir’s flat was situated. Her own rooms were wrecked, almost everything in them having been destroyed before the fire was extinguished. But they had carried her to another flat in the same house, and to a darkened chamber in this suite of rooms the doctor now proceeded, followed by Webster, who was deeply moved.

The doctor faintly rapped when they reached the door of the apartment where Kathleen lay, and it was immediately opened by a professional nurse.

“I am glad you have come, doctor,” she whispered; “she is very restless.”

Then the doctor went into the room and approached the bedside, and the moment Kathleen saw him she said, in a faint, low voice, which Webster heard:

“Have you brought him?”

“Yes,” answered the doctor, gently; “he is here. Mr. Webster, will you come and speak to Miss Weir?”

Upon this Webster, with faltering footsteps, also approached the bed, where, swathed and bandaged, lay the once lovely form of Kathleen Weir!

“Send everyone away, doctor,” continued Kathleen, in the same faint, low tone; “I wish to speak to Mr. Webster alone.”

The doctor and the nurse at once left the room, and then Kathleen spoke to Webster.

“Well, this is a great change,” she said.

Webster was deeply agitated, and his voice broke and faltered as he strove to express his regret and sorrow.

“It came so suddenly,” continued Kathleen; “like a bad dream—only there was no waking from it.”

“How did it happen?” asked Webster, much moved.

“I tripped and fell over a cushion someone had left lying on the floor, and to save myself caught at a lamp and overturned it. I was like a mad creature last night, I think. After you left I went to the theater, and had people to supper, and we made merry, when—well, Mr. Webster, I seemed to care for nothing more; when the world seemed for me—as it is.”

“Oh, hush, hush! do not speak thus, I entreat you!”

“Well, you have nothing to blame yourself for, at least. You acted like an honest man, and I admired you when—you gave me a blow that was far more bitter than you guessed of. But it is all over now. John Temple will be free without his divorce; and if it was money that parted you from the girl or woman you cared for, it need part you no longer—for I have left you all I have to leave.”

“Miss Weir—Kathleen! Why have you done this? I want no money; I can not take it!”

“But you must, my friend; do not talk nonsense—what good can it do me now? Yes, it does do me some good, to be able thus to show you what I really think of you; to mark how I estimate you—and if it makes you happy even with someone else—”

“No money will make me happy—it was not money,” answered Webster with inexpressible pain in his face. It flashed across his mind indeed at this moment that the very death of this wayward, generous heart would end all his hopes; would leave John Temple free.

“At all events, I hope you will be happy—some day,” went on Kathleen, after a little pause; “so I sent for you to tell you this, and—to bid you good-by. But I don’t believe it will be forever. I have a vague foreshadowing of another life—another and a better one—even for a poor sinner like me. And after all, one is often tired here—tired by the shams and follies—I feel tired now—”

Her voice sank into a whisper as she uttered these last words, and then died away. Webster bent nearer, and then grew alarmed. He rang the bell, and the doctor and nurse reappeared, and Webster left the room, but not the house. A profound feeling of melancholy seemed to come over him. A sense of desolation filled his heart. The door of poor Kathleen’s wrecked drawing-room was slightly ajar, and he went in and looked around. The flames had blackened and spoilt everything, and the water poured in by the firemen had completed the ruin. He thought of her as she had sat there yesterday—a bright, smiling, handsome woman—and he thought of her now. And her generous words! Her having remembered him amid her own agony touched his very soul.

“But she little knows, poor Kathleen—she little knows!” he murmured, half-aloud, as he gazed at the desolate scene.

And then he asked himself what he must do. It Kathleen died, John Temple would be free; free to right the wrong that he had done—but would he do it? Naturally Webster thought ill of John Temple, and was not sure how he would act when he heard the wife was dead whom he had forsaken. And then, Temple knew not where to find May. “No one knows where to find her but myself,” reflected Webster, and a great struggle took place in his heart.

“Shall I again destroy the peace that is just dawning? tell her the man who treated her so vilely is now able to marry her if he will? It would be cruel, and yet, on the other hand, what right have I to judge for her?”

None, Webster told himself, as he paced restlessly up and down the deserted room. If May still cared for Temple, he had no right to stand between them; no right to think of his own happiness in comparison to hers.

He was still thinking thus when Doctor Lynton entered the room, and Webster looked quickly in his face as he did so.

“She has revived a little for the present,” said the doctor, in answer to the unspoken question written on Webster’s face. “But the action of her heart is extremely weak, arising from the shock to the system, and she will not live over the night.”

Webster heard this verdict in silence; but the fleeting breath was not stayed even as long as the doctor had thought. A few minutes later the nurse entered the room and addressed Webster.

“The poor lady upstairs, sir,” she said, “has something to give you before she goes, and I think it won’t be long now.”

“Will it do her any harm my seeing her?” asked Webster, looking at the doctor.

“Nothing will do her any harm,” answered the doctor, gravely; “from the first there was no hope; and it is only from the original strength and vitality of her constitution that she has lasted so long.”

So Webster returned to the bedside of the dying woman, and even during the short time of his absence her voice was weaker. It was indeed only a husky whisper now, and he had to bend over her very closely to understand what she said.

“I want you to have this ring—this ring,” and a bandaged hand crept out toward Webster’s, who took it gently in his own, and stooping down kissed it. “Keep it for my sake,” went on those husky tones; “and if you see John Temple—”

But the next moment she gave a kind of cry.

“What is this? What new pain is this?” she gasped out. “Lift me up—I am choking—lift me up!”

Both the doctor and Webster at once raised her in their arms, but after a few gasping sighs, she indicated that she wished to lie back again.

“It—is—all over,” she murmured; “and—I die as I wished—with my hand in yours.”

They were her last words; there were a few faint struggles, a few long, low sighs, and then all was still. But to the end Webster kept her poor maimed hand in his, and when it was all over he again bent down and kissed it, and when he raised his head his eyes were dim with unshed tears.

Late that night he sat alone in his chambers pondering still on how he should act. A hard and bitter struggle was warring in his heart; how hard and bitter he only knew. Unconsciously almost to himself he had begun to hope that some day he would win May Churchill for his wife; that some day she might return his love. He was not a man to love lightly, nor one to change. His feelings were characteristic, strong, and undivided; his life high-toned and pure. Until he had seen May’s flower-like face he had loved no woman, and indeed scarcely had given the sex a thought. His profession, his career, had occupied his whole time, and he hardly knew that there lay a hidden fire in his breast, which had kindled and burst forth at the beauty of a country girl.

Now he did not deceive himself. He knew during that dark struggle in the midnight hours when Kathleen Weir lay dead, that if he gave May up he gave up also the best hopes of his manhood, the one love of his life. But after a stout fight with the opposing passions of his heart, the nobler part of his nature conquered.

“Shall I not give her back happiness at the cost of my own?” he determined. “I will go to him, and if he is a cur, she shall never know; if not—”

His face was very gray and pale, but he had made up his mind. He would see John Temple, and he and May must decide their fate.