Ephraim Judd's breakdown and collapse on that memorable Sunday morning was attributed by everyone there, except the unhappy young man himself, to a sudden attack of illness, and many were the inquiries at his mother's house later in the day by sympathizing Templetonians, who were afraid lest his unaccountable seizure might result in something still more serious. But Ephraim arose next morning and set out for the Bank at his usual time, to outward seeming as well as ever he had been, but with an inner consciousness pervading every fibre of his being, that never again would he be the same man that yesterday morning had seen him. The "gift" on which he had secretly prided himself more than on aught else life held for him, had been recalled without a moment's warning. The fountain of living water had been suddenly dried up within him. Now that by his own act he had rendered himself no longer worthy to preach the "Word" to others, the power of doing so had been withheld from him. He knew as well as if a thousand voices had dinned the fact into his ears, although others knew it not, that he stood condemned at the bar of his own conscience, as one who had wandered from the right path, for whom there was no return possible, save through the narrow gateway of confession and full acknowledgment of his grievous fault. His despair, although unseen of anyone, was none the less profound and abiding.

That winter was a long and inclement one. About the middle of March, Ephraim caught a severe cold, which he would probably have got rid of in the course of a few days--as he had of many previous colds--had he but taken ordinary care of himself. As it fell out, however, he neglected to do so, being at the time in one of those moods in which whether one lives or dies seems a matter of equal indifference. His cold became worse, and presently developed into an acute attack of pneumonia. Then, without saying a word to her son, Mrs. Judd sent for Dr. Hazeldine.

Ephraim's face flushed suddenly, and then as suddenly paled, when Clement was ushered into his room. A very brief examination sufficed to convince the young surgeon that his patient was in a somewhat critical condition. Ephraim's chest had always been delicate, besides which, at the best of times, his general health had never been robust; so that it now became a question whether his constitution would not succumb to an attack from which a stronger man would have rallied without much difficulty. There was one point in his favor; he had two capital nurses in Mrs. Judd and her daughter Eliza, the latter of whom chanced just then to be at home, while looking out for another situation.

Next morning Ephraim was decidedly worse. His bright, feverish eyes, fixed intently on Doctor Hazeldine's face, did not fail to note the grave expression which crept over it like a shadow, while listening to his patient's labored breathing, and counting the quickened beats of his pulse. Then Ephraim drew his own inference, which was little more than a confirmation of the doubts--one could scarcely have called them fears--which had beset him almost from the beginning of his illness.

"I am going to die," he said to himself, "and Clement Hazeldine knows it. But, first of all, I've something to say to him."

"Yes, I had only a poor night," he said aloud, in reply to a question of Clement; "hour after hour I lay awake, tossing and turning from side to side. Just now I feel sleepy, and not up to much talking; but there's one thing I wish you would do for me, Mr. Clement."

Among the Bank staff Mr. Hazeldine's sons had always been spoken of as "Mr. Edward" and "Mr. Clement."

"I shall be glad to do anything for you that I can, Ephraim."

"I wish you would come and sit with me this afternoon when your busy time is over, and you have half-an-hour to spare. I shall, perhaps, feel a bit stronger by that time, and I have something particular that I am anxious to tell you--something very particular, which I dare not put off any longer for fear I may not be able to tell it at all."

"Since it is your wish, I will certainly come and see you this afternoon," answered Clement. "But you must not allow your spirits to get depressed. I sincerely trust that to-morrow morning will find you much better than you are to-day."

Ephraim smiled faintly.

"You and I know better than that, Mr. Clement," was all he said, as he shut his eyes with an air of weariness.

At four o'clock Clement called again, and was shown by Eliza Judd into her brother's room. Clem felt nothing more than a very mild curiosity as to the nature of the confession, or whatever it might prove to be, which Ephraim was about to impart to him. Sick men have often strange fancies, and attach a spurious importance to things which are of no real consequence, although at such times they seem to be.

Ephraim seemed stronger and brighter than he had been earlier in the day, but Clement's experienced eyes told him that it was merely a "flash in the pan"--a condition of things which might change for the worse at any moment.

"I must ask you to put anything you have to say to me in the fewest possible words," he said gently; "indeed, I would much rather you should defer it entirely till another time."

"Another time may never come," answered Ephraim, with a sigh. "No, you must hear me now while a little strength is left me. I will promise to be as brief as possible." He was breathing hard, and his sentences were uttered brokenly and with difficulty. After closing his eyes for a few moments as if to collect his thoughts, he said: "You were at the trial of Mr. Brancker, were you not, Mr. Clement? You listened to the evidence right through from beginning to end?"

"I don't think a single point of the evidence, as sworn to by the various witnesses, escaped me."

"You will not have forgotten that one of the facts which told strongly against Mr. B., and one which he professed himself totally unable to explain, was that some of the papers in his private drawer were smeared with blood, and that there was a similar smear on the floor close by?&q............