"You shall see—come up-stairs. She is not up yet. She has been distressingly sick—she is better now, almost well, though very feeble. The doctor says, she was poisoned."
"No doubt, if drunk, of course she was. Every drop of drunkenness-producing liquor is poison, of the most subtle kind—slow, but sure."
She was still in bed. Her kind protector had furnished her with a clean, white bed-gown and cap, and a prettier face, indicating about sixteen or seventeen years, never looked up smilingly from a downy pillow.
"She is very pale now. She vomited terribly all the latter part of the night. Her color will soon come again."
"Oh, yes, ma'am, I feel quite well now. Do let me get up and dress myself, and go home—I cannot bear to be a trouble to you any longer. Oh, sir, she has been a mother to me—more than a mother—if I had such a mother——."
"Well, well, my girl, never mind now. You cannot get up yet. You must keep quiet to-day. To-morrow, we will see you safe home."
"Oh, sir, I cannot possibly wait till to-morrow. What will Mrs. Meltrand think?"
"She shall know all about it before night."
"Oh, no, no, no! not all, not all! I should die with shame."
"Well, then, only that you have been to see a friend, and was taken very sick."