Miss Arran began. She had started to go in Mrs. Boyd's room to see if anything was needed when the words arrested her, and she detailed the journey Mrs. Boyd had undertaken with her infant child, the dreadful midnight disaster, the unconsciousness of the poor woman until the next day, her hearing the child cry and claiming it unwittingly, and then learning the child's mother had been killed as well as her own baby and her resolve to keep it; her taking it on her farther journey, and caring for it as her own, her latent remorse lest she should have defrauded the girl out of a better birthright--

Mrs. Barrington rose suddenly and paced the room in strange agitation.

"Somewhere I have heard a story that might be the other side of this. It is very strange," clasping her hands. "One would not want to make a mistake."

"I wish you might _hear_ the story, and one point of importance is whether it would be wisdom to help the girl in any search for her parentage. Sometimes unfortunate facts come to light. You, perhaps, can tell what will be the best course to pursue."

"Yes, I am glad you came to me. I had resolved to keep Miss Boyd here after her mother was gone. I must give the matter some thought. We will not be hasty. Yes, I should like to hear the confession and ask her some questions. Lilian must not stay alone tonight."

"I will gladly offer my services if they would be acceptable," said Mrs.

Dane.

"I think I will take the first part of the night, and then you may be watcher. I thank you very much for your kindness."

Mrs. Barrington went to the quiet apartment. Lilian had fallen asleep with her head on her mother's pillow. She had exhausted herself with a soft, pitiful crying. With the quick unreason of youth she upbraided herself for the many times she had been secretly mortified at her mother's lack of the qualities she liked best. She had spent hours in dreaming of a phantom mother sweet, graceful and refined, who loved all delightful things, who was stirred by music and poetry, who could receive guests with a gracious hospitality in the pretty home which should be simple as befitted moderate means. The sympathy between them would be perfect. They would linger over well-loved poets, they would discuss their brave heroes and favorite heroines. How many times she had fallen asleep with this dear mother's hand clasped in hers!

But here had been the hard working mother instead. Yes, she had tried to help. Nearly all the summer vacation she had sewed steadily, but she had never given the real love. It was as if neither truly understood the other's language.

"All the rest of her life I will try," was her last conscious thought.

Mrs. Barrington found them both asleep. She studied the girl's face, the finely cut features, the wide eyelids with their bronze fringe, the beautifully curved lips. It _was_ an aristocratic face. She hardly dared think there _was_ a resemblance, and yet it explained what had puzzled her at times. "Lilian," she said softly. "Lilian, child, it is time you were in bed."

The girl roused suddenly with a startled look. Then she caught the hand and pressed a fervent kiss upon it.

"You are all so kind," she murmured. "I can never repay you sufficiently."

"Do not think of that, I am going to sit here awhile with your mother and you must try and get some sleep."

"Mother is better I think," hesitatingly. "She is stronger, and now she is sleeping peacefully."

She slept on with only a rather heavy breathing. At one Mrs. Dane came to relieve her. Lilian was on the alert quite early and her mother asked for some breakfast.

At ten the doctor came. "I feel so much stronger," the invalid said, "but I can't move my limbs. There doesn't seem any life in them."

"It was quite a severe stroke."

"And if I should have another?"

"We won't think of that just now. You must eat what you can of nourishing food."

Mrs. Boyd glanced up at the doctor with beseeching eyes--

"It is best that I shouldn't live--"

"For your daughter's sake." Dr. Kendricks felt almost ashamed of the plat.i.tude. A helpless burden on a young girl, a poor, weak woman.

"It _is_ for her sake. She has found a good friend in Mrs. Barrington, and I can do no more. I did what I thought best then, but I did it for the sake of my aching, lonely heart. But for the child I believe I must have died then. Doesn't G.o.d forgive when you do what seems best?"

There was anguish in every line of the wasted face.

"G.o.d knows the motive of every deed, and if it is done in single mindedness, in love and charity he will accept."

"It was done in love. You see, her mother was dead. There was no one to claim her. Oh, what am I saying! Go away, you can do nothing for me,"

and she turned her face over to the wall.

He stood some seconds by her. She was crying softly, and again motioned him away with her hand.

He went out of the room and looked around. Yes, there was Mrs.

Barrington.

"What is the matter between that mother and daughter?" he inquired brusquely. "She seems--well _is_ the girl her own child? Has she done--something--"

"Oh, doctor can you spare a little time? I am troubled and puzzled. She made a strange confession last night and it seemed almost as if I knew the connecting link. Let me call Mrs. Dane and Miss Arran."

They came and at Mrs. Barrington's invitation were seated. The doctor studied them a moment with drawn brows.

"Doctor, I want you to relate your experience of more than fifteen years ago when you went out to the scene of that frightful accident from which Mrs. Crawford has suffered so long and when her twin daughter was lost."

"What has that to do with it?"

"You will see. I believe Major Crawford left his wife and daughter in your charge when he was ordered to the west with his regiment."

"Yes." He seemed to study a few moments. "Then came the word of the skirmish with the Indians when he was wounded in the leg which proved so much worse than he first thought and she decided to go out to him and take one of the babies. He had gone fairly wild over the birth of the little girls; they had so longed for a daughter. Marguerite, if you remember, was a strong, robust baby, laughing if you so much as smiled at her. A beautiful baby, I thought, looking much like her mother.

Zaidee was smaller and more delicate, though never ill that I can recall. She decided to take Marguerite and the wet nurse who was very proud of her charge and fond of Mrs. Crawford. When we heard of the frightful disaster you may remember that I went out at once. It was a most dreary place, just a sort of freight station where the tracks crossed the through road. It could not be called a town, though now it is a thriving city and the freighting road runs miles below. When I reached the place most of the wreckage had been cleared away, the dead buried, the wounded sent to friends or hospitals at a distance. I found about half a dozen remaining, four of them almost well enough to resume their journey. Two were thought hopeless, one of them being Mrs.

Crawford. Fifteen years ago there were not so many conveniences as there are now, and as the fire broke out afterward the baggage was mostly lost and it was quite difficult to find the names of the pa.s.sengers at first.

The nurse and the baby had been killed outright. There was one other baby on the train and that had been taken farther West with its mother."

Miss Arran and the housekeeper exchanged glances.

"Mrs. Crawford had sustained some injury to the brain and for the first few days they had thought her dead half a dozen times. The people where she had been taken were very kind. She was in a comatose state most of the time, and when she roused seemed quite ignorant of what had happened. There was some injury to the back that rendered her limbs useless. As soon as I could make arrangements I had her removed to Indianapolis to a fine hospital where we found, on an exhaustive examination, the spine had been injured, the ligatures strained and muscles actually torn apart. When the Major was well enough to travel--and he came very near losing his leg, it seemed, he joined us, and we journeyed on to New York. Meanwhile the Major's brother had died, a queer, penurious old fellow who had never given up his rights in the estate and now it all came to the Major, besides a large amount of money. He resigned from the army and they came home. Mrs. Crawford had kept her mind through all this and had been most brave, recovering very slowly as you know and when she could manage to get about on crutches it appeared as if the last stage of recovery had been attained; but now it seems nothing short of a miracle. And there was the beautiful little golden haired fairy to gladden their hearts--"

"But the nurse and the child?" interrupted Miss Arran.

"The child was crushed beyond recognition. They placed it in the coffin with the nurse and buried it temporarily. The Major meant to have it brought home, but it was so long before they could get about it, and it seemed like living the heart-breaking episode over, so he concluded to have it permanently interred in a burying ground a few miles distant, which is now a really beautiful spot. Mrs. Crawford was ill so long that it seems like a dream to her."

"And did no one ever hear of the other child?"

"What was there to hear? The mother claimed it."

"The woman dying in yonder room claimed the child first, ignorantly, then believing the mother dead, took it in the place of her poor murdered child."

"No!" The doctor sprang up and began to pace the floor. "Why, then, that young girl--"

"Miss Arran will you tell the other side of the story. Why it seems to me there can be no mistake," said Mrs. Barrington.

"Well--this is most marvelous. Does the girl know--"

"Oh, she protests. I think she has no idea. But the mother fancies we may find some relative, a father perhaps, for she truly believes the mother dead."