“Yes, I visited her several times during her illness. She was fond of reading, I observed, so I gave her a book of poems.”
“Yes, my mother told me that she was fascinated with one of ‘Auralia’s’ late works. I did not blame her, for if I ever loved in fancy, it is the authoress Auralia. Her style of writing is enough to captivate both the thoughtful and the careless. There is a touching pathos in them that is seldom excelled, and poor Irene forgot her sufferings in listening to their sweetness, so my mother told me.”
“I am very glad,” said the lady, “as I presented her with that one for friendship’s sake.”
“Excuse my boldness, but I would like to ask your name.”
“Elsworth,” she said.
“What, the authoress?”
“The same.”
“And are you the lady who visited my wife, because you thought her friendless?”
“No, not because I thought her friendless, for I knew she was surrounded by those who would do all in their power to smooth her way to the grave, but at her request I held an interview with her.”