“Then she will look after my child, and if in coming years circumstances arise which seem to make it necessary for Mildred to know her parentage, she will seek her out, tell her who she is and carry you this letter. You may think me crazy to adopt this plan, and so, perhaps, I am. But my husband, who is her lawful protector, shall not have her, and as I do not care to burden you with Hawley’s brats, as you once termed any children which I might have, I shall send it to Beechwood.
“My strength is failing me, father, and in a day or so I shall be dead. I wish I could see you all once more, particularly Lawrence, my darling little brother Lawrence. Baby looks some like him, I think, and should she ever come to you, bid him love his little niece for his dead sister Helen’s sake——”
Mildred could not read another line—there was a sound like the fall of many waters in her ears,—the blood seemed curdling in her veins, and her very finger-tips tingled with one horrid, maddening thought.
“Lawrence,—Lawrence,—little niece,” she moaned, and with eyes black as midnight, and face of a marble hue, she turned to the superscription, which she had not observed before, reading as she expected:
“Robert Thornton, Esq.,
Boston, Mass.”
“Oh, Heaven!” she cried, rocking to and fro. “Isn’t it a dream. Isn’t there some mistake? Tell me, dear, good woman, tell me, is it true?” and in her unutterable agony she knelt abjectly before the witch-like creature, who answered back:
“Poor, poor Milly. It is true. All true, or I would not come here to save you from a marriage with your mother’s brother,—your own uncle, girl.”
“Stop!” and Mildred screamed with anguish; “I will not know that name. Oh, Lawrence, Lawrence, you are surely lost to me for ever and ever!”
There was a rustling movement, and then Mildred lay with her face upon the threshold of the door.