The fierceness of the storm, which increased in violence, precluded the possibility of entering into conversation; and the explanation was, therefore, of necessity, deferred until they stood safely within the cozy kitchen of Valley Cottage.
In a few brief words, Celeste gave them to understand that it concerned that "other child," left that eventful Christmas eve on the bleak stormy beach. This was sufficient to rivet their attention; and the squire, in his anxiety and impatience, forced his way into the sick-room, and stood by the bedside of Miss Hagar.
"Sorry to see you so sick, Miss Hagar; 'pon my life I am. I never expected to see you confined to your bed. Celeste—Miss Pearl, I mean—has told me you have something of the greatest importance to communicate to me."
"I do not see how it can possibly concern you, Squire Erliston," said Miss Hagar, faintly; "but since it is Celeste's desire, I have no objection to relate to you what I have already told her. Oh!" said the sufferer, turning over with a groan.
"Curly, leave the room," said Gipsy, who now entered; while Celeste tenderly raised the head of the invalid, and held a strengthening draught to her lips. Brokenly, feebly, and with many interruptions did the dying woman repeat her tale. Wonder, incredulity, and amazement were alternately depicted on the countenances of the squire and Gipsy, as they listened. She ceased at last; and totally exhausted, turned wearily aside.
"Then you, Celeste, are that child. You are the heiress of Sunset Hall! Wonderful! wonderful!" ejaculated Gipsy, pale with breathless interest.
"And my grandchild!" said the squire, gazing upon her like one bewildered.
"Hush!" said Celeste, in a choking voice, "she is dying."
It was even so. The mysterious shadow of death had fallen on that grim face, softening its gaunt outline into a look of strange, deep awe. The eyes had a far-off, mystic gaze, as if striving to behold something dim and distant.
All had fallen on their knees, and Celeste's choking sobs alone broke the silence.