"It was love for you that led me to it—only that—Oh, believe—beli—"
"I do! I do!" he cried out, in fearful anguish. "God forgive me, and have mercy on you!"
She struggled, lifted up her arms, drew his lips close to hers, and over them floated the last icy breath that Rachael Closs ever drew.
Then the young girl, who had loved this woman better than anything on earth, sank to the floor, and took that pale head in her lap, moaning over it piteously.
"My poor mamma! my darling mother! Speak to me! Open your eyes! It is Clara—your own, own child! Her eyelids close—her lips are falling apart! Oh! my God, is she dead?"
She looked piteously in the face of Hepworth Closs, who had knelt by her side, and asked this question over and over again:
"Is she dead? Oh, tell me, is she dead?"
Hepworth Closs bent down, and touched his lips to the cold forehead of his sister; then he lifted Clara from the floor, and half led her, half carried her, from the room.
Then Lord Hope stood up and turned, with a shudder, to the old woman, who had been to him and his a fearful Nemesis.
"Hannah Yates," he said, "you have suffered much, concealed much, and, from your own confession, are not without sin."