"No, no!" she cried. "Give me a week to think it over, and—and to see what I can do about raising the money."
"Well, then, a week, if you must have it," he replied; "but no longer. Here, you can take these proofs of my story regarding your child and look them over at your leisure," he said, thrusting the package into her hand.
The next moment he was gone. She did not faint; she knew that if she did she would be found there with the package in her hand. She was so dazed, so bewildered, she never remembered how she reached the house and her own room. Again she rang the bell for Nora.
"You may bring me another cup of tea," she said, faintly, "as strong as the last one."
The girl, noticing how pale and ill her mistress looked, thought it would be best to bring her a glass of wine as well.
"Unless I am very much mistaken, she has a sick spell coming on. Her face is pale, but every now and then it flushes burning red."
Ida did not seek her couch that night until she had eagerly scanned every article of clothing the parcel contained.
Her excitement knew no bounds as she read the letter from the superintendent of the foundling asylum, concerning all that he knew of the baby's parentage, in which he stated that the doctor who had attended the young mother had brought the child to the institution in a dying condition, as he supposed, and was hastily called abroad, and had barely time to make the outgoing steamer. He had told them that they could tell the hapless young mother when she was able to bear the sad news.
Ida wept as she had never wept before as she read those written words, and her excitement increased as she saw that the letter was directed to the village merchant's wife, Mrs. Lester, who had taken the child.
It was, then, her own child that she had clasped in her arms, the eyes of her own babe into which she had gazed with such agony and yet with such rapture.