The wasted features of the invalid contract with pain.
"No, my little daughter," she sighs, "I shall never be any better in this world. I am dying."
A stifled cry of pain, and the girl's soft cheek is pressed to hers in despairing love.
"No, mamma, no," she wails. "You must not die and leave me alone."
"Alone?" the mother re-echoes. "Beautiful, poor and alone in the great, cruel world—oh, my God!"
"You cannot be dying, mamma," the girl says, hopefully. "They—Mrs. Cleveland and Miss Ivy—could not go on to their balls and operas if you were as bad as that!"
Something of bitter scorn touches the faded beauty of the woman's face a moment.
"Much they would care," she says, in a tone of scorn. "At this moment my sister and her proud daughter are dancing and feasting at the Riverton's ball, utterly careless and indifferent to the fact that the poor dependent is lying here all alone, but for her poor, friendless child."
"You were no dependent, mamma," the girl says, with a gleam of pride in her dark eyes. "You worked hard for all we have had. But, mamma, if—if you leave me, I will not be Ivy Cleveland's slave any longer. I shall go away."