The carriage was ordered to the door, and she was driven away with as much ceremony and respect as though she were a member of the family, where she was in reality but a dependent.
But as she rode onward her thoughts fled from her own good fortune to that unhappy woman who had done so much to aid her in securing that which was more to her than her life, and a great sadness took possession of her.
How good God was to her, giving her name and friends when she had lost all hope, yet how far He seemed from that poor creature lying there knowing that she must die, and that the child whom she had so much loved had preceded her.
The beautiful eyes filled with tears as the carriage stopped.
She explained to the person in charge of the building who she was, and was admitted to the ward in which poor Liz lay upon one of the little, white-draped cots.
Very quietly Leonie approached her, and, kneeling beside the bed, kissed her upon the forehead.
"Don't you know me, Liz?" she asked gently.
The woman smiled feebly, making an effort to extend her hand.
"I did not until you spoke!" she answered weakly; "but nothing could ever cause me to forget that voice. You are Leonie; but how changed you are."
"Borrowed plumes make changes in us all! They have told you of the terrible things that happened last night, have they not, dear?"