She was living over the old life, with its old, fatal tendencies.
Edith sat down, and sobbed as if her heart would break. Unnoticed, a stout, elderly lady was regarding her with eyes wet with sympathy. As Edith's grief subsided somewhat she laid her hand on the poor girl's shoulder, saying:
"My child, I feel very sorry for you. For some reason I can't pass on and leave you alone in your sorrow, though we are total strangers. Your trouble gives you a sacred claim upon me. What can I do for you?"
Edith looked up through her tears, and saw a kind, motherly face, with a halo of gray curls around it. With woman's intuition she trusted her instantly, and, with another rush of tears, said:
"This is—my—poor lost-sister. I've—just found her."
"Ah!" said the lady, significantly, "God pity you both."
"Were it not—for Him," sobbed Edith, with her hand upon her aching heart, "I believe—I should die."
The lady sat down by her, and took her hand, saying, "I will stay with you, dear, till you feel better."
Gradually and delicately she drew from Edith her story, and her large heart yearned over the two girls in the sincerest sympathy.
"I was not personally acquainted with your father and mother, but I know well who they were," she said. "And now, my child, you cannot remain here much longer; where are you going to stay?"