“My poor Miriam—­my poor Miriam!”

The slow tears gathered in her eyes as she bent above her and saw the pinched, sharpened face, with the blue tinge of coming death already dawning there.

“Be you a relation?” the woman asked, curiously.  But Mollie did not answer—­she was stooping over the sick woman, absorbed.

“Miriam!” she said, softly, taking the skinny hand in both her own—­“Miriam, look up!  Speak to me.  It is I—­your own Mollie.”

The sound of that beloved voice penetrated the death fog already blurring every faculty.  The dulled eyes opened with a sudden, joyful light of recognition.

“Mollie,” she said, “my dear little Mollie.  I knew you would come.”

“I am very, very sorry to see you like this, Miriam.  Do you suffer much pain?”

“Not now—­only a dull aching from head to foot.  But even that will soon be over.  I am glad.  My life has been nothing for the past sixteen years but one long torment.  I am glad it is so nearly done.  Mollie,” fixing her haggard eyes solemnly on her face, “you know I will never see another sunrise.”

“My poor, poor Miriam!”

“Are you sorry for poor Miriam, Mollie?”

“Sorrier than sorry!  What other relative have I in the wide world but you?”

“Not one, Mollie.  But I am a relative you need hardly grieve for.  I have been a bad, cruel woman—­the worst woman that ever lived to you, my poor little girl!”

“Miriam!”

“Ah! don’t look at me with those innocent, wondering blue eyes!  You shall know all.  I can’t die with my story untold, my secret unrevealed.  Mrs. Slimmens, I have something very particular to say to this young lady.  Please to leave us alone.”

The woman, with a disappointed look, rose up and quitted the room.

Mollie drew up the only chair and seated herself by the bedside.

“Did you come here alone?” was Miriam’s first question, when they were together.

“No,” said Mollie, coloring slightly.  “Mr. Ingelow came with me.  He is waiting below.”

“That is well.  It is growing late, and the neighborhood is not a good one.  He saved you, did he not?”

“He did.  I owe him my life—­my liberty.”

“I knew he would—­I knew he would!  I trusted him from the first Mollie, do you know why I sent for you in my dying hour?”

“To tell me who I am.”

“Yes—­you would like to know?”

“More than anything else in the wide world.”

“And have you no idea—­no suspicion?”

Mollie hesitated.

“I have sometimes thought,” reddening painfully, “that I might be Mr. Walraven’s daughter.”

“Ah!” said Miriam, her eyes lighting; “and he thinks so, too!”

“Miriam!”

“Yes,” said Miriam, exultingly, “he thinks so—­he believes so, and so does his wife.  But for all that, not one drop of his blood flows in your veins!”