"I'm not your mother, Frank. Don't you know me?" said the girl.
"You said you were my mother, and I know you are, though you have spots on your face."
"Rouse up, Frank," said the girl in a tone of alarm. "Look at me. Who am I? Don't you know me?"
"You're mother, and you said you'd take me away to Mrs. Pemberton's, only father wouldn't let you," said the boy, with another yawn.
There sounded a tumult in the ears of the mother, and she thought she should go mad if she did not scream out.
The visitor went to the window and spoke to the man outside. "The child has been dreaming, and fancies I'm his mother."
"Heaven forbid!"
"Why?"
"His mother is not to be spoken of. His mother was the basest, the worse woman that ever lived. She, fortunately for herself and every one else, died a little while ago. You are not to mention her name, dear. It sullies wherever it is uttered."
The hiding woman shrank into herself as if struck by an icy blast. Was it thus she deserved to be spoken of by her only brother? Yes--yes--yes! As the basest, the worst woman who ever lived? whose name sullied the place in which it was uttered? O yes--yes--yes! It was true! Too true.