She sighed softly. “I am a dying woman, Frank. The blight of weariness, of ennui, of heart loneliness, has fallen on my life, and I am fading from earth, yet I have still a little human interest left, and it will not tire me to listen to your story.”
She had brightened perceptibly, this strange woman who lay there sinking into death, not of any vital trouble, but merely of morbid grief and despair that she could not quell.
So Frank plunged into the story of the Atlanta’s burning, and, seeing that her eyes rested on him with gentle interest, he told it in most eloquent fashion, dwelling at length on the beautiful girl he had rescued.
The invalid’s eyes brightened with interest, while a faint pink crept into her waxen cheek, but presently Cora’s jealousy broke bounds, and she exclaimed sharply.
“Pray tell us the name of this paragon of beauty—this bewitching combination of dark eyes, dimples, rosy cheeks, and golden hair!”
A moment’s hesitation, and he answered frankly:
“Miss Jessie Lyndon!”
“Ah-h!”
The stifled cry came from Mrs. Dalrymple’s suddenly blanched lips, and her dark eyes closed as if in death.
“You have killed her!” Cora cried to him angrily, but the maid came and knelt by her mistress, chafing her cold hands till her eyes opened again.