The carriage stopped at last before the door of her home—if the miserable tenenment-house could be designated by such a name—and she sprang eagerly to the ground as the coachman opened the door for her to alight.
"The fare is all paid, miss," he said, respectfully, as she hesitated a moment; then she went bounding up the stairs to be met on the threshold of her room by Kate O'Brien—who had seen the carriage stop—with her finger on her lips and a look in her kind, honest eyes that made the girl's heart sink with a sudden shock.
"My mother!" she breathed, with paling lips.
"Whisht, mavourneen!" said the woman, pitifully; then added, in a lower tone: "She has been mortal ill, miss."
"And now?" panted Edith, leaning against the door-frame for support.
"'Sh! She is asleep."
Edith waited to hear no more. Something in the woman's face and manner filled her with a terrible dread.
She pushed by her, entered the room, and glided swiftly but noiselessly to the bed, looked down upon the scarcely breathing figure lying there.
It was with difficulty that she repressed a shriek of agony at what she saw, for the shadow of death was unmistakably settling over the beloved face.
The invalid stirred slightly upon her pillow as Edith came to her side and bent over her.