"There are—some papers," murmured the old man, without turning his head, and thinking he spoke to May, "papers which I wish burnt."
"Shall I get them, sir?" whispered Helen, while every bad, avaricious, and selfish instinct in her nature, started to sudden life; "where shall I find them?"
"On the second shelf—of the closet—where the wills are. They are records—of sorrows—and bitterness; but be careful, child—those two wills—the last one, which concerns you—is in—a white—envelope; the old one—in a brown wrapper. On the—second shelf; mind—the wills."
"Yes, sir!" whispered Helen, while her heart throbbed almost to bursting, and a wild gleam of triumph shot across her visage, giving it the fearful beauty of a demon. She would throw the new will amongst the condemned papers—it would be consumed with them; he would be silent and cold when it was missed, and could tell nothing; but then, might not she be suspected? No! she would not burn it—she would secrete it, and only destroy it in case she was disinherited. These thoughts rushed through her mind with a strange velocity, while she went towards the closet; and, just as she laid her hand on a package of papers, Mr. Stillinghast, suddenly turning, discovered his mistake.
"Come away—come away," he cried, with strange energy, "how dare you go there? Come away."
It was the work of an instant to snatch up the new will, thrust it into her bosom, and return, pale, trembling, and almost fainting, to his side.
"I thought you were May; call her here, Helen, then go away," he said, gently.
"Uncle Stillinghast wants you, May," said Helen, stooping over, and touching her.
"What can I do for you, uncle?" she said, instantly roused.
"I wish—you to burn—some papers—quick—quick—child. On the second shelf—there—in the small closet—where the wills are. Is she gone?"