A miserable attic chamber, dimly lighted by one dirty sky-light, a miserable bed in one corner, a broken chair, an old wooden chest, a rickety table, a few articles of delf, a tumble-down little cook-stove.
That was the picture Mollie Dane saw, standing on the threshold of Miriam's room.
There was no deception this time. On that wretched bed lay the broken and bruised figure of the woman Miriam, dying.
Her deep, labored breathing was painfully audible, even outside the room; her strong chest rose and fell—every breath torture.
By her side sat the mother of the ragged boy, holding a drink to her lips, and coaxing her to open her mouth and try to swallow.
In vivid contrast to all this poverty and abject wretchedness, the young girl in the door-way stood, with her fair, blooming face, her fluttering golden ringlets, her rich silken garments, and elegant air.
The woman by the bed turned round and stared for a moment; then—
"Be you the young lady as Mrs. Miriam sent my Sammy for?" she asked.
"Yes," said Mollie, coming forward. "How is she?"
"Bad as bad can be, miss. Won't never see another day, the doctor says."