"She was my mother, Hugh," she said, and slipped heavily backward in his arms, white and still.
Mollie did not faint. She lay a moment in a violent tremor and faintless, her face hidden on his shoulder; then she lifted her face, white as the dead—white as snow.
"She was my mother, Hugh," she repeated—"my own mother."
"Your mother, Mollie? And I thought Carl Walraven—"
"Oh, hush! not that name here. He is nothing to me—less than nothing. I shall never see him again."
"Are you not going home?"
"I have no home," said Mollie, mournfully. "I will stay here until she is buried. After that—'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' You will help me, Mr. Ingelow?" looking piteously up. "I don't know what to do."
"I will help you," he said, tenderly, "my poor little forlorn darling; but only on one condition—that you will grant me a favor."
"What?" looking at him wonderingly.
"That you will go and lie down. You need sleep—go with Mrs. Slimmens—eat some breakfast, and try to sleep away the morning. Don't make yourself uneasy about anything—all shall be arranged as well as if you were here. You will do this for me, Mollie?"