“My child was nearer,” returned Janet, rising again to her feet and shaking off the other woman’s arm.  “He was my son, and I have seen him die.  I have been your sister for twenty-five years, and you have only now, for the first time, called me so!”

“Listen—­sister,” returned Mrs. Carteret.  Was there no way to move this woman?  Her child lay dying, if he were not dead already.  She would tell everything, and leave the rest to God.  If it would save her child, she would shrink at no sacrifice.  Whether the truth would still further incense Janet, or move her to mercy, she could not tell; she would leave the issue to God.

“Listen, sister!” she said.  “I have a confession to make.  You are my lawful sister.  My father was married to your mother.  You are entitled to his name, and to half his estate.”

Janet’s eyes flashed with bitter scorn.

“And you have robbed me all these years, and now tell me that as a reason why I should forgive the murder of my child?”

“No, no!” cried the other wildly, fearing the worst.  “I have known of it only a few weeks,—­since my Aunt Polly’s death.  I had not meant to rob you,—­I had meant to make restitution.  Sister! for our father’s sake, who did you no wrong, give me my child’s life!”

Janet’s eyes slowly filled with tears—­bitter tears—­burning tears.  For a moment even her grief at her child’s loss dropped to second place in her thoughts.  This, then, was the recognition for which, all her life, she had longed in secret.  It had come, after many days, and in larger measure than she had dreamed; but it had come, not with frank kindliness and sisterly love, but in a storm of blood and tears; not freely given, from an open heart, but extorted from a reluctant conscience by the agony of a mother’s fears.  Janet had obtained her heart’s desire, and now that it was at her lips, found it but apples of Sodom, filled with dust and ashes!

“Listen!” she cried, dashing her tears aside.  “I have but one word for you,—­one last word,—­and then I hope never to see your face again!  My mother died of want, and I was brought up by the hand of charity.  Now, when I have married a man who can supply my needs, you offer me back the money which you and your friends have robbed me of!  You imagined that the shame of being a negro swallowed up every other ignominy,—­and in your eyes I am a negro, though I am your sister, and you are white, and people have taken me for you on the streets,—­and you, therefore, left me nameless all my life!  Now, when an honest man has given me a name of which I can be proud, you offer me the one of which you robbed me, and of which I can make no use.  For twenty-five years I, poor, despicable fool, would have kissed your feet for a word, a nod, a smile.  Now, when this tardy recognition comes, for which I have waited so long, it is tainted with fraud and crime and blood, and I must pay for it with my child’s life!”