“Oh, it would seem cruel to disturb her,” she cried with passionate tenderness, “and she suffered so in telling it the other evening. It cannot make much difference to me, since my own mother was killed, and my father may have been dead before that. I shall always hold her in my memory as my mother.”
“But the woman who was killed may not have been your mother.”
Lilian started in surprise.
“There seems to be a reason why we should be certain in this. Trust me, I will not torment her needlessly.”
“My dear child it is best;” said Mrs. Barrington. “Can you not trust me?”
Lilian was not convinced but she led the way.
“Oh, where have you been so long?” cried the invalid. “You said you would stay—has some one come to take you away? Oh, you will not go. You promised. It will be only a little while.”
She fell into a pitiable terror. Lilian soothed. Mr. Ledwith tried to explain that they might possibly find the young girl’s father who was now a prosperous man.
But Mrs. Boyd would not be persuaded. She began to talk incoherently, and suddenly raising her head and leaning on one elbow said—“send them away. It is all true as I told you. You are not my own child, but I have loved you all these years, oh, you will stay with me! I can feel that it will not be for long. It is there in the drawer—I wrote it out. It took so long and I was so tired, so tired! Give it to them and send them away. Oh, Lilian, he is not your father. Promise me you will not go with him.”
Lilian opened the drawer. There lay quite a big packet, with the superscription,—“For my daughter Lilian when I am dead.”