"She has never been a sister to me," panted the dying woman, wildly; "and I have carefully concealed from her the secret of my life, because she was not fit to share it. But no matter now; the papers will tell you all. Now I am tired and must sleep. Kiss me, Beatrix; I am dying, and I am—your—"
She strove hard with a mighty struggle to speak another word, but the rigid lips refused to give it utterance. The word which was not spoken in life could never be spoken in death. Beatrix stooped and kissed her. She smiled sweetly and so, smiling, died.
[CHAPTER XXXIII.]
IN DEADLY PERIL.
Beatrix felt a strange sensation as she stood alone at the midnight hour beside the dead woman. It was not terror, it was not the natural and instinctive shrinking from death—death in any form; for Beatrix had seen so much of the dread messenger that she had grown inured to such scenes since she had come to live at the Home. But still within the girl's heart there lingered a strange feeling of sorrow, as though she had lost a friend, a very dear friend.
She drew the sheet up over the calm, white face upon the pillow; but first she kissed the cold cheek once more. Then she took the package of papers and went swiftly up to her own room. The nurse who had been in charge had already hastened to give due notice of Celia's death, and the poor body was soon prepared for its last resting-place.
Beatrix locked the precious papers safely away in her own wardrobe, then she threw herself upon her bed to try and get a little sleep. She was very tired, and her eyes closed at once, and she was soon in the land of dreams—strange land, whither we all stray at times, sometimes with friends, and often with those whose faces we do not know, and whom we meet only in the land of dreams. Beatrix dreamed that night of Celia Ray. It seemed that the dead woman came to her and took her in her arms, and held her close to her heart, whispering tender, loving words, and calling her her baby and darling child. Beatrix awoke with a feeling that she had been with spirits, for the presence of the dead woman in her slumbers had seemed so real.
Early in the morning Beatrix dispatched a messenger to Bernard Dane with the information of Celia's death. To her surprise, the old man himself made his appearance at the Home and he came alone. He inquired for Beatrix, and when she entered the reception room she found him sitting with bowed gray head, looking the very picture of despair.