“Perhaps you don’t know that it was Everard Dawn—my brother—who brought you in here out of the snow that night?” added Mrs. Flint.
“So he saved my life,” Rachel Dane muttered, grimly; “and you say he is your brother, Mrs. Flint?”
“Yes, and he told me he recognized you as a former servant. Is it true?”
“Yes; I lived with Mrs. Dawn two years. It was when her eldest child was born—before they left the South and moved North. I suppose she has several children now, ma’am?” with eager inquiry.
Mrs. Flint stared at her in surprise.
“Then you haven’t heard—you don’t know—that Mrs. Dawn died when little Cinthia was five years old and there never was any other child?”
“Dead! Mrs. Dawn dead!” the woman cried with sharp regret, while a spasm of pain passed over her face, and she sprung excitedly to her feet.
“You must have been very fond of her,” remarked Mrs. Flint, curiously.
“Fond of her! Oh, yes, naturally. I lived with her some time, you see, as maid of all work. Mr. Dawn wasn’t rich then, but perhaps he’s better off now,” with keen interest.
“No, and never will be; for it sort of took the heart out of him when Cinthia’s mother died. He brought me the child to raise, and went off wandering over the world to drown his sorrow.”