“I must! I must!” whispered the poor girl, distinctly. “I must tell it to the world for my baby’s sake. You shall know, every one shall know my baby’s father.”
“Not now, dear,” said Marion, soothingly; “another time. Lie down, Kittie, and be calm. You will be better to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” murmured the girl, hoarsely. “To-morrow I shall be dead! To-night I must speak! To-night or never.”
Marion saw that she could do nothing, so she leaned sadly over the bed.
“If it will relieve your mind, Kittie, you can whisper it to me softly. I will never tell. It shall always be your secret.”
The burning eyes of the sick girl were searching her face, and the claw-like fingers which Marion held twitched and trembled convulsively.
“No, no. I can’t speak it,” she said at last, “but there is a picture—his picture—in the bosom of my dress: the head nurse has it—ask Miss Williams for it.”
She sank back upon her pillow completely exhausted now. There was a change passing over her face that even Marion noticed.
In a second Miss Williams was standing beside the bed.
“Poor thing, it will soon be over,” she said, sadly; “put the screen around her and go to Miss H——, Miss Marlowe. She is suffering greatly, and I am too busy.”