"You will not leave me?" the dying woman whispered, in alarm, opening her glassy eyes.
"Only for a moment, mother. Mr. Ingelow is below. I must speak with him."
She glided from the room and went down-stairs.
Hugh Ingelow, leaning against the door-post, smoking a solacing cigar, and watching the new moon rise, started as she appeared. She looked so unlike herself, so like a spirit, that he dropped his cigar and stared aghast.
"Is she dead?" he asked.
"She is dying," Mollie answered. "I came to tell you I will stay to the last—I will not leave her again. You can not, need not wait longer here, Mr. Ingelow."
"I will not leave you," Mr. Ingelow said, resolutely, "if I have to stay a week. Good heavens, Mollie! what do you think I am, to leave you alone and unprotected in this beastly place?"
"I will be safe enough," Mollie said with a wan smile at his vehemence. "I dare say the worst crime these poor people are guilty of is poverty."
"I will not leave you," Hugh Ingelow reiterated. "I will go upstairs and stay in the passage all night if you will find me a chair. I may be needed."
"You are so kind!" raising her eloquent eyes; "but it is too much—"