“Hush! hush! my dear, poor child; you have been so brave always, and so patient with my fretful ways; don’t give way now, dear; try to prepare yourself——”
Jenny’s hand was pressed upon her lips now, and she could not finish the sentence.
“You shall not talk of leaving me,” the girl cried passionately; adding in tones of wild rebellion against the fate she had no power to avert, “God would not be so cruel to me.”
At this moment there was a crash of thunder that seemed to shake the tall tenement to its foundation, and the mother and daughter clung to each other almost in terror, the storm had arisen so suddenly.
It was the evening of the day on which Oscar Hilton had told Iris the story of her true parentage.
“How nervous I am to-night, mother. Let me close the window blinds, the rain is coming in through the broken pane, and if a drop should fall on Miss Hilton’s dress she would never forgive me. If it was her sister, Miss Iris, I should not be afraid.”
Jenny’s voice ceased suddenly, for at this moment there was a low knock on the door.
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I fear this is Miss Hilton’s servant for the dress,” murmured the little seamstress, as she hastened to admit the visitor; but the look of distress on her face changed to one of intense astonishment as she saw who it was that waited to be admitted.
“Miss Iris!” she could only ejaculate; and Iris came slowly into the room, seating herself on the nearest chair, like one who was very weary, while Jenny hastened to light a lamp, as the room was growing quite dark.
“Oh, Miss Iris!” she cried in alarm, when her eyes first fell upon the changed countenance of the young lady, “you are in trouble; what can I do for you? I know I am only a poor sewing girl, and you a rich man’s daughter, but——”