The room was dim, but filled with the breath of flowers, as it had been in its owner's life-time. Every article of furniture was in its old place. The white bed gleamed out from the twilight of the apartment like a snow-bank; the soft lace curtains covered the windows, flowing down beneath the silken over-curtains like ripples of falling sleet. Everything was so natural, so almost holy in its stillness, that even in the terrible anxiety that filled my soul, I felt like falling down by the bed and praying that sainted one to help me save her child.
A wild petition did spring to my lips; but it was a time for action; so, snatching a flask from the dressing-table, I was turning to leave the room, when Lottie arose from a stool, at the foot of Mrs. Lee's easy-chair, and stood before me like a ghost.
"What are you doing here, Miss Hyde?" she said, in a whisper. "She does not like people to come to her room."
I held up the flask and was going on; but she seized it between both hands.
"It is for Miss Jessie—for her child—she is ill."
The girl's hands dropped.
"Take it—take it," she said, and followed me from the room.
When Lottie saw her young mistress lying so still and marble-like on the floor, a cry of anguish broke from her.
"Oh! my poor, poor lady! how much she looks like her—how much she looks like her!"
Jessie came to at last: that is, she breathed again, and her eyes opened; but this was all. She had no strength, and all the rich, young life that made her so beautiful had left her frame.