By morning she was in a high state of fever, and when the landlady came to her later in the day she was so alarmed at her appearance she sent at once for the doctor. The doctor came.
“Mental shock,” he said.
Days went by and in wild delirium the little chorus girl lay upon her bed in the lodging, till one night when the landlady had fallen asleep the broken-hearted girl managed to scramble up, and getting a piece of paper and an envelope wrote:
“You have killed me, but for the sake of the honest love of those two years, I forgive you all.”
She addressed it in a firm hand to Alan Murray, and crawling back into bed fell asleep.
A few hours later the landlady awoke; all was silent in the room—so silent, in fact, that she began to wonder. The wild raving had ceased, the restless head was no longer tossing about on the pillow. Drawing back the muslin curtains to let the light of early morning—that soft gentle light of a summer’s day—pour into the room, she went across to the bed.
The kindly old woman bent over the broken-hearted girl to find her sleeping peacefully—the sleep of death.
Printed and bound by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.
Transcriber’s Note: