She offered no useless objections, uttered no complaints, but heard them with patience, and gave the necessary orders to her servants. But when they had quitted the room, and the miserable wife and mother began to comprehend the extent of the trouble that menaced her, a bitter cry burst from her laboring heart.
“Florence, my child—my poor child!”
Her daughter, who was lingering in the next room until recalled, heard the shriek, and flew to her mother. She found her lying back in her chair, looking so strangely white that she hastily summoned assistance.
The female servants gathered around their lady, and tried every known remedy to revive her, but without success.
“A doctor!” cried the half-frantic Florence. “She has fainted. Oh, if papa were but here!”
One of the strangers, who had stolen in unchecked in the confusion, put his fingers to Mrs. Heriton’s pulse, then crept softly away.
“Heaven help that poor young creature!” he whispered to his companion. “I don’t like to be the first to tell her, but a doctor’s no use. The lady’s dead.”
CHAPTER III.
THE LEGACY.
Eight years had passed over the head of Florence Heriton since the sudden death of her beloved mother, and the gay, happy child of fifteen was transformed into the thoughtful, beautiful woman.