Madeline only dimly realised what the woman was saying, for her eyes were fixed upon the name written upon the paper. It was that of her cousin, living in England.
"What is the meaning of this?" she asked. "What had he to do with my trouble?"
"Can't you guess? Were not you the only one standing between him and your father's vast estate?"
"Yes. I know that, but—"
"You don't see yet? Your cousin needed money—was bankrupt—driven to the verge of despair—a desperate man—and you alone stood in his way. With you gone, everything would be his."
Swiftly now the horrible truth flashed into Madeline's mind. It almost overpowered her.
"And he hired you to kill me?"
"No, no, not that," cried the woman. "But you were young, and many things can happen in a big city. Young girls can disappear—there are places they can enter, and the world will hear of them no more. But that wreck came. There was a girl drowned. Money did the rest. Money will do anything. There were men willing to swear that you had been drowned—that they saw you go down. The story was believed, and your cousin got what he wanted. Wait," she commanded, as Madeline was about to interrupt her. "Don't stop me. I want to tell my story, for I can't last long. Your cousin knew the truth. I told him everything, and he supplied me with money. But I could not ruin you. I am bad, God knows, but I could not put you into those dens of hell. I fled with you from place to place. But I was always fearful lest I should be discovered. Farther and farther North I sped—to Winnipeg—and beyond, ever Northward—always away from the crowded cities—until we came here. People thought I kept you for an evil purpose. I have fought with men. I have threatened to shoot them. But I kept you safe—and—and—you are pure. You may think it strange, but I loved you. I tried not to show it. I struggled to crush back the feeling. I scolded you. I spoke sharply to you, but I loved you. When you were stolen away by the Indians my heart almost broke. Then when I heard that you were going back to Big Glen, and that I should lose you forever, I could stand no more. How could I live here in this lonely cabin—and you gone! The thought is terrible. I don't deserve your pity—your sympathy, for I am a bad woman. But when you say your prayers to-night put in one little word for Old Meg—the outcast. And see, I wrote it all out before I took that stuff. I thought no one would come to me until I was dead. It's all there—my story is on that paper, though I'm glad I've told you with my own lips, for it makes me feel better."
Tears were streaming down Madeline's cheeks as she listened to the poor creature. She now bent forward, and imprinted a kiss upon the sufferer's brow. Old Meg's face brightened, and she seized the young woman's hands in a firm clasp.
"Don't leave me!" she cried. "I'm afraid to be alone. I'm afraid to die. God, have mercy upon my wretched soul!"