Beatrix had fallen upon her knees, and pillowed the poor head upon her breast. Something—a strange, unaccountable feeling of something like affection crept into the girl's heart as the worn cheek came in contact with her own.
"What is it?" she asked, softly; "tell me."
Celia Ray's eyes studied the beautiful face.
"It seems strange," she said, softly, after a long survey of every feature, "that you should be so beautiful. Your father is—was, I mean—anything but handsome; and your mother—"
"My mother was a beautiful woman," interrupted Beatrix, hastily. "I have seen her portrait. She was far too lovely to have been my mother."
A strange expression crept over Celia Ray's worn face. She opened her lips as though to speak, but no words passed them.
"Beatrix," she said, softly, after a slight pause, "I have sent for you to ask you to do me a favor. I—I have something serious—of the greatest importance—to say, a confession to make. Will you see that I have a notary and necessary witnesses? This that I wish to say is most important; it must be placed upon paper."
"But"—Beatrix strove to be cheerful—"you will get well, Mrs. Ray. Doctor Darrow says that—"
"Doctor Darrow has acknowledged to me that my chances are small," interrupted Celia, hastily. "And, in any case, I must make this confession. It should have been made long ago, to try and set right a deadly wrong. Beatrix,"—wistfully—"you do not despise or dislike me, do you? You have nothing against me, have you, dear?"