"My poor Miriam—my poor Miriam!"
The slow tears gathered in her eyes as she bent above her and saw the pinched, sharpened face, with the blue tinge of coming death already dawning there.
"Be you a relation?" the woman asked, curiously. But Mollie did not answer—she was stooping over the sick woman, absorbed.
"Miriam!" she said, softly, taking the skinny hand in both her own—"Miriam, look up! Speak to me. It is I—your own Mollie."
The sound of that beloved voice penetrated the death fog already blurring every faculty. The dulled eyes opened with a sudden, joyful light of recognition.
"Mollie," she said, "my dear little Mollie. I knew you would come."
"I am very, very sorry to see you like this, Miriam. Do you suffer much pain?"
"Not now—only a dull aching from head to foot. But even that will soon be over. I am glad. My life has been nothing for the past sixteen years but one long torment. I am glad it is so nearly done. Mollie," fixing her haggard eyes solemnly on her face, "you know I will never see another sunrise."
"My poor, poor Miriam!"
"Are you sorry for poor Miriam, Mollie?"