But at that moment they were interrupted by the opening of the door, and Madame Ray glided in, murmuring in her sweet, soft voice:
“They told me you were watching by a very sick woman, and as Cinthia is asleep, I thought I might be of some assistance to you.”
She had never heard the name of Rachel Dane, and she came and stood by the bed, looking down, with pity and sympathy, at the poor soul.
Rachel Dane turned her heavy eyes upward to the lovely face, and then uttered a cry of deadly fear:
“My God! it is Mrs. Ray, come to haunt me in my dying hour!”
“Rachel Dane, where is my child, my baby daughter?” cried the other, wildly; and, shaking with excitement, she added: “Do not die, miserable wretch, till you reveal the truth.”
Mrs. Flint stared in wonder, and exclaimed:
“The poor woman was just confessing to me that she had stolen a young widow’s child twenty years ago. Go on with your story, Rachel.”
She pushed the agitated lady into a chair as she spoke, and waited with eager curiosity and sympathy for the next words.
Rachel looked fearfully at the woman she had wronged, and muttered: