“Such torture,” she cried, turning from first one to the other, “such torture; save me, save me!”
“We cannot do that, dear madam; we have no such power. You need have no fear. It is the awakening of your soul, and only good can be the final result,” said the Governor.
“Your words only harrass me. There are so many here to chide me for my unjust treatment of the child there, in that other life.” Spying a new face close by, she fairly screamed: “What, you here?”
Everybody turned to see who it was that caused the half crazy woman—crazy with guilt—to cry out so, when a queenly young woman stepped forward and said:
“I certainly am sorry my presence has created such an uproar. Ladies and gentlemen, I now apologize.”
“Have you ever met the woman?” asked the President.
“Not in this life, your Honor.”
“She remembers me, though,” said Mrs. Grange, “and I her.”
“If that be true,” said the Governor, “present me, dear madam. I have not the honor of her acquaintance.”
As Mrs. Grange sank into a chair she put her hands over her eyes, as if to hide from view of every one, and said: “Your Honor, the lady was Helen Hinckley, in that time long past,” then sank into her former state of unconsciousness.