The lady rose, and moved quietly into the inner room. At sight of her face, Mrs. Lyte gave a violent start; the thanks she was about to speak died on her lips; she could only cry out in amazement;—"Who are you?"
The stranger knelt by the bedside, and took both Mrs. Lyte's hands in her soft, cool grasp. "I am the daughter of your runaway sister, Aunt Katie," she answered, "and my name is Godiva Thane."
"But she died, and she left no child," said Mrs. Lyte, incredulously.
"She died in giving me birth," returned Diva, with convincing positiveness. "I have long suspected that my father did not let you know, he never forgot the opposition to his marriage; besides, he was jealous of his only child's affections. You must needs forgive him,—for he is dead."
Several questions followed, on Mrs. Lyte's part; to which Diva gave long, detailed answers, skilfully contrived to satisfy her aunt's curiosity, tranquillize her emotions, and bring her, in a brief space, to a tolerably peaceful and composed state of mind.
"Can I do anything for you before I go?" she then asked.
"Nothing, dear, unless you will sing to me—a hymn; there are tones in your voice which are more soothing than any anodyne."
Diva put her hand to her brow, and sent her thoughts back—a long, long way, it seemed to her—to a period in her childhood, when she had been under the care of a certain faithful nurse, afterwards discharged by her father for putting foolish, superstitious notions—as he averred—into her head. There she found two or three hymns; keeping tenacious hold of her memory, in virtue of their early grafting therein; which she sang in such soft, even tones, that Mrs. Lyte was first calmed, and then irresistibly lulled to sleep.
The two cousins stole out of the room together. In the studio, Diva put her arms around Astra and kissed her tenderly.
"Having found you, my little cousin, my art sister," said she, smiling, "I shall never let you go!"