The dessert was a wonderful preparation of alternate layers of biscuit glaces, ice cream, and candied chestnuts.
“Delicious, is it not?” observed Julian Lambert, partly to himself, partly to Miss Cedarquist. “This Moscovite fouette—upon my word, I have never tasted its equal.”
“And you should know, shouldn't you?” returned the young lady.
“Mammy, mammy, wake up,” cried Hilda. “Don't sleep so. I'm frightenedt.”
Repeatedly she shook her; repeatedly she tried to raise the inert eyelids with the point of her finger. But her mother no longer stirred. The gaunt, lean body, with its bony face and sunken eye-sockets, lay back, prone upon the ground, the feet upturned and showing the ragged, worn soles of the shoes, the forehead and grey hair beaded with fog, the poor, faded bonnet awry, the poor, faded dress soiled and torn. Hilda drew close to her mother, kissing her face, twining her arms around her neck. For a long time, she lay that way, alternately sobbing and sleeping. Then, after a long time, there was a stir. She woke from a doze to find a police officer and two or three other men bending over her. Some one carried a lantern. Terrified, smitten dumb, she was unable to answer the questions put to her. Then a woman, evidently a mistress of the house on the top of the hill, arrived and took Hilda in her arms and cried over her.
“I'll take the little girl,” she said to the police officer.
“But the mother, can you save her? Is she too far gone?”
“I've sent for a doctor,” replied the other.