In an agony of terror, Edith dashed the box upon the nearest chair and began to chafe the cold hand that hung over the side of the bed, while Mrs. O'Brien came forward, a look of awe on her face.
The frail chest of the invalid heaved two or three times, there was a spasmodic twitching of the slender fingers lying on the young girl's hand, then all was still, and Edith Allandale was motherless.
CHAPTER VI.
A HERITAGE OF SHAME.
We will not linger over the sad details of the ceremonies attending Mrs. Allandale's burial. Suffice it to say that on Tuesday afternoon her remains were borne away to Greenwood, and laid to rest, in the family lot, beside those gone before, after which Edith returned to her desolate abode more wretched than it is possible to describe.
She had made up her mind, however, that she could not remain there any longer—that she must find a place for herself in a different locality and among a different class of people. This she knew she could do, since she had the promise of permanent work and now had only herself to care for.
The change, too, must be made upon the following day, as Mr. Bryant would expect her at his office on Thursday morning.
There was much to be done, many things to be packed for removal, while what she did not care to retain must be disposed of; and, eager to forget her grief and loneliness—for she knew she would be ill if she sat tamely down and allowed herself to think—she began at once, upon her return from the cemetery, to get ready to leave the cheerless home where she had suffered so much.
She decided, first of all, to pack all wearing apparel; and, on going to her closet to begin her work, the first thing her eyes fell upon was the casket of letters, which her mother had requested her to bring to her just before she died.