Her Dark Inheritance

by Mrs. E. Burke Collins

"It can not be possible!" he exclaimed. "It seems incredible! We will keep her secluded from every one else here, and I will study her case in my spare moments. You are aware that I am devoting myself to the study of this horrible disease, and this will be a grand opportunity to test some of my theories in regard to the matter. Heaven help her, poor child! And she is so young and beautiful. I wonder where her home is, and who she is?"

But Beatrix, in her delirium, raved in such incoherent phrases that no one could find a clew to her identity, her name, or former home. It was all about the sorrow of a parting—a parting from some loved one—which she expressed in her wild ravings; and although Douglas Darrow passed nearly all his time at her bedside, he could find nothing tangible to guide him in a search for the friends of the unfortunate girl. Douglas Darrow was young and handsome—an enthusiast in his profession; he was all alone in the world, and the possessor of a fair fortune. He grew deeply interested in his mysterious patient, and ere he had realized the truth he found himself crossing the boundary that separates friendly interest from the fatal passion of love. But poor Beatrix, tossing in wild delirium upon her white bed, was deaf and blind to everything around her. To human eyes it seemed better for her to pass away now, and drift down the dark river of death into the great unknown. But the Father, who guides and directs us, had His own plans for her future, and so poor Beatrix did not die.

She struggled back to consciousness one day, and as the great dark eyes opened slowly they fell upon the face of Doctor Darrow, who was seated at her bedside.

"Keith!" she faltered, trying to arise, but the effort was too much, and her head fell back upon the pillow and she fainted away. Her constitution seemed entirely broken down, and her long illness, preceded by that awful shock which had ruined her whole life, had left her weak to bear the heavy burden. Douglas Darrow soon restored her to consciousness, and administered a sleeping potion. She sank, at last, into a refreshing slumber, and the young physician began to hope that she might be saved.

"If she awakens in her senses, with her reason unclouded," he said to Sister Angela, who stood gazing sadly down upon the weak little sufferer, "she will recover, I think—I am positive. But she must not have the least excitement; no questions must be asked her; she must not be annoyed in any way, or we will not be able to save her. Yet, after all," he went on tremulously, "it seems better that she should go now. Only think of the future in store for her!"

"Our Father in Heaven knows best," returned Sister Angela, softly; "we can afford to leave it all in His hands."

The young man turned aside with something like a sob.

"You are an angel!" he cried. "The world would be purer and better if there were more women like you."

When one looks about and sees the women of the world—the fashion-plates and simpering dolls of society—then turns to the pure white lives of those like Sister Angela, one can not fail to echo Douglas Darrow's words: "To visit the fatherless and the widow in their affliction, and to keep ourselves unspotted from the world." This was Sister Angela.