The fire had died out of Miss Worth's eye, the red had left her cheek, and she was swaying from side to side; only her hold on the balustrade keeping her from falling.
Mildred sprang toward her. "Lean on me," she said. "Let me help you to your room. Don't be so troubled; the Lord will take care of you and yours, if you put your trust in Him."
She did not know whether or not her words were heard and understood. The poor woman answered only with a heavy sigh and whispered, "Thank you. I shall be better soon. But oh, what will become of them all! my mother, my poor mother! He was her pride, her idol!"
Sympathetic tears streamed over Mildred's cheeks as she assisted her to her room.
"I'm to go away, Miss Mildred," she said, "turned off in disgrace for what is no fault of mine: no fault but my bitter, bitter sorrow! God help me and those dependent on me!"
"He will," Mildred answered chokingly; "He is so kind, so full of compassion; His tender mercies are over all his works!"
She stayed a little while trying to administer consolation, then putting the paper into Miss Worth's hands, merely saying that it had come by that morning's mail, she went away.
Finding Rachel busy in her room, she stepped back into the hall and stood for a few moments at the window there, looking out into the avenue below where Mr. Dinsmore was mounting his horse to make his daily morning round of the plantation.
Suddenly there was a sound in Miss Worth's room as of a heavy body falling to the floor.