MR. WALRAVEN,—Miriam is dead—Miriam Dane—my mother. She deceived you from first to last. I am no daughter of yours—for which I humbly thank God!—no daughter of Mary Dane. I am Miriam's child; yours died in the work-house in its babyhood. I know my own story—I know your hand is red with my father's blood. I don't forgive you, Mr. Walraven, but neither do I accuse you. I simply never will see you again. Mr. Ingelow will hand you this. He and I alone know the story. MARY DANE.
Mr. Ingelow looked up.
"Will it do?" she asked.
"Yes. Am I to deliver it?"
"If you will add that kindness to your others. I don't think he will seek me out. He knows better than that."
Her head dropped against the side of the carriage. The face usually so sparkling looked very, very pale, and worn, and sad. The young artist took her hand and held it a moment at parting.
"You intend to write to your old manager to-morrow, Mollie?"
"Yes."
"Don't do it. Postpone it another day. I am coming here to-morrow, and I have a different plan in my head that I think will suit better. Wait until to-morrow, Mollie, and trust me."
His eyes flashed with an electric fire that thrilled the girl through.