Both went to the bedside of the dying woman, over whose face the dark shadows of death were creeping. Rose could no longer raise her hand to beckon or raise her voice to call, but she fixed her eyes imploringly on Cora, who bent low to catch any words she might wish to say. She was gasping for breath as in broken tones she whispered:
"Cora—the Lord—has given me—grace—to forgive them. Write to—my step-mother. Fabian—will tell you—where—"
"Yes; I will, I will, dear Rose," said Cora, gazing down through blinding tears, as she stooped and pressed her warm lips on the death-cold lips beneath them.
Rose lifted her failing eyes to Cora's sympathetic face and never moved them more; there they became fixed.
The sound of approaching wheels was heard.
"It is my grandfather. Go and tell him," whispered Cora to old Martha without turning her head.
The woman left the room, and in a few moments Mr. Rockharrt entered it, leaning on the arm of his valet.
When he approached the bed, he saw how it was and asked no questions. He went to the side opposite to that occupied by Cora, and bent over the dying woman.
"Rose," he said in a low voice—"Rose, my child."
She was past answering, past hearing. He took her thin, chill hand in his, but it was without life.