“’O yes, he knows that.  I was ill when he sent me home.  We had been travelling about the Continent almost ever since our marriage.  He married me against his father’s will, and lost all chance of a great fortune by doing so.  I did not know how much he sacrificed at the time, or I should never have consented to his losing so much for my sake.  I think the knowledge of what he had lost came between us very soon.  I know that his love for me has grown weaker as the years went by, and that I have been little better than a burden to him.  I could never tell you how lonely my life has been in those great foreign cities, where there seems such perpetual gaiety and pleasure.  I think I must have died of the solitude and dulness—­the long dreary summer evenings, the dismal winter days—­if it had not been for my darling child.  She has been all the world to me.  And, O God!’ she cried, with a look of anguish that went to my heart, ’what will become of her when I am dead, and she is left to the care of a selfish dissipated man?’

“‘You need never fear that she will be without one friend while I live,’ I said.  ’Little Marian is very dear to me, and I shall make it my business to watch over her career as well as I can.’

“The poor soul clasped my hand, and pressed her feverish lips to it in a transport of gratitude.  What a brute a man must have been who could neglect such a woman!

“After this I went up to her room every evening, and read to her a little, and cheered her as well as I could; but I believe her heart was broken.  The end came very suddenly at last.  I had intended to question her about her husband’s family; but the subject was a difficult one to approach, and I had put it off from day to day, hoping that she might rally a little, and would be in a better condition to discuss business matters.

“She never did rally.  I was with her when she died, and her last act was to draw her child towards her with her feeble arms and lay my hand upon the little one’s head, looking up at me with sorrowful pleading eyes.  She was quite speechless then, but I knew what the look meant, and answered it.

“‘To the end of my life, my dear,’ I said, ’I shall love and cherish her—­to the end of my life.’

“After this the child fell asleep in my arms as I sat by the bedside sharing the long melancholy watch with the landlady, who behaved very well at this sorrowful time.  We sat in the quiet room all night, the little one wrapped in a shawl and nestled upon my breast.  In the early summer morning Lucy Nowell died, very peacefully; and I carried Marian down to the sofa in the parlour, and laid her there still asleep.  She cried piteously for her mother when she awoke, and I had to tell her that which it is so hard to tell a child.