The lady came gliding forward, and stood opposite Fair, gazing with heavy, despairing eyes at the beautiful marble form before her; and then Fair started, and exclaimed falteringly:
“I beg your pardon!”
“Who are you, child?” asked the lady, in a sad, gentle voice.
“I am a sewing girl from the factory. I came to alter this,” she said, pointing to the exquisite robe that enveloped the body of Azalia Howard.
“Ah, yes,” said Mrs. Howard, and she indicated what she wished done, and the small alteration was performed in silence, the lady watching the work, and noting, as the maid had done, the striking resemblance of the humble working girl to the dead heiress.
Fair finished the task, and lifted from it a face almost as white as the one in the casket.
“That is very satisfactory,” the lady began, and Fair faltered faintly:
“I am very glad—for—for—I am sick. The flowers made me feel faint; they—they—are so heavy.”
She was staggering, with weak, uncertain footsteps, past the lady; but she caught her arm, and said kindly:
“Wait and have a little wine.”