Mollie finished her meal and went at once upstairs. The chamber of death looked ghastly enough, draped with white sheets, which hid the smoky, blotched walls; the stove had been removed, the floor scrubbed, the window washed and flung open, and on the table stood two large and beautiful bouquets that scented the little room with sweetest odors of rose and mignonette.
On the bed, snowily draped in a white shroud, lay Miriam, her hands folded across her bosom, a linen cloth covering the dead face. By the bed a watcher sat—a decently dressed woman, who rose with a sort of questioning courtesy upon the entrance of the young lady.
"This is Mrs. Harmen, Miss Dane," said Mrs. Slimmens. "She's the person that fixed the shroud and helped tidy up. She's to take spells with you and me watching until the funeral comes off."
"Very well," said Mollie, quietly. "Perhaps she had better go down with you for the present. I will remain here for the rest of the day."
The two women quitted the apartment, and Mollie was left alone. She removed the cloth and gazed sadly on the rigid face.
"Poor soul!" she thought, bitterly, "hers was a hard, hard life! Oh, Carl Walraven! if you could look upon your work, surely even you would feel remorse."
The entrance of Hugh Ingelow aroused her. She turned to him her pale, sweet face and earnest blue eyes.
"I want to thank you so much, Mr. Ingelow, and I can not. You are very, very, very good."
He took the hand she held out and kissed it.
"One word from you would repay me for ten times as much. May I share your watch for a couple of hours?"