Six o'clock chimed forth from a distant steeple, and the sun was lying warm and bright across the girl's pallid face, when a light footstep sounded upon the path, and a woman bent over the girl's prostrate figure—a Sister of Charity—one of those good and holy women who spend their lives in working for others in His holy name, and who alone of all others keep themselves "unspotted from the world."
The sister passing by, on her way to a certain charitable institution, had caught sight of the girl lying upon the hospital steps, and her gentle heart had prompted her to stop and inquire what was the matter. She stooped and peered eagerly into the girl's beautiful white face. The great dark eyes were closed, and she was, to all appearances, dead.
But Sister Angela had seen too much suffering in her life—too many cases similar in some respects to Beatrix Dane's, but not exactly like hers, for surely there was never another such experience in the world.
Sister Angela uttered a cry of dismay.
"The poor child! She is young and fair. She has fainted from exhaustion, or what is more likely, she is in deep trouble. Oh, yes, it is trouble that breaks us down sooner than anything else! It is far worse and more fatal in its effects than the most severe illness. Sickness of the heart—ah, that is incurable!"
Sister Angela lifted the girl's head upon her breast, and pushed aside the veil from the white face to give her air. A faint sigh passed the poor girl's lips, and consciousness seemed slowly struggling back to her. She opened her sad, dark eyes, and they met the pitying gaze of Sister Angela's blue ones.
"Where am I?" moaned the girl, lifting her head. "Uncle Bernard—Keith—oh, my God!"
And the dreadful truth rushed over her memory like a flood, and the golden head drooped once more, and an awful pallor overspread the girlish face. Sister Angela thought she was going to faint again.
"My dear," she said in her soft, persuasive voice, "you are ill and in trouble. Tell me where to take you. I will see you safely to your home and friends."
"Home?"—her voice full of bitterness—"I have no home. Friends? Is there such a thing as a friend—a real friend—in the whole world?"