"No," stammered Anselmo; "but go to bed now, it is late."
"You will surely call me?" asked the little one.
"Certainly; go now and rely on me."
She went, and Anselmo was alone with the invalid—the dying woman, as he shudderingly said to himself.
From time to time the sick woman would wake up in her sleep and utter a low moan.
Anselmo looked in terror at the face, which showed traces of former beauty. Whose fault was it that her life ended so early and so sadly?
Suddenly the invalid opened her big black eyes, and gazed at the ex-convict who was sitting by her bedside with folded hands.
"How did you get here?" she asked, timidly.
"You are sick, keep quiet; later on you shall learn everything," replied Anselmo.