Miss Arran tapped lightly at the half-open door and Mrs. Barrington bade both ladies enter.

“How is Mrs. Boyd?”

“Why she seems curiously better. She has been talking awhile to her daughter and her voice has a latent strength that surprises one, and we have been unwitting listeners to a most remarkable story. Did you ever suspect that she might not be the own mother of Miss Boyd?”

“The thought has crossed my mind. They are so dissimilar.”

“I have never really liked Mrs. Boyd or the girl either,” began Mrs. Dane. “There seemed something to conceal, some secret between them. I had a fancy Lilian was on the watch all the time lest her mother should betray it.”

“Oh, did you think that? It appeared to me the anxiety of a girl of good breeding lest her mother should fall into habits of a different kind that were rather annoying. Yet they had always been together—”

“It seemed to me aping a style really above what she had been used, a certain pretentiousness, that did not appear suitable to her position, but she has proved a devoted nurse and daughter, and I will confess my prejudice has received a great shock, and I admit frankly that I may have been mistaken when I accused her of being at the Clairvoyant’s. Miss Arran will you tell the story—it seems a deathbed confession.”

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 platitude. 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 God forgive when you do what seems best?”

There was anguish in every line of the wasted face.

“God 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 passengers 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.”

“But this confession—would she repeat it again?”

“I think she spoke of having it written out somewhere.”

“It must be well authenticated, you know. And—what steps have you considered?”

“None. Tomorrow will be Sunday—they will all go to church to give thanks; then on Christmas day they are to have a small family dinner. You and Mrs. Kendricks and myself, two or three dear old friends, and it would be hardly wise to mar the sacredness of the occasion. We may see our way more clearly, I would not like to have Miss Boyd disturbed on uncertainties.”

“I will take a further look at her,” said the doctor. “I have known cases like hers to last weeks, even when strength seemed to be almost gone.”

He wanted also to see Miss Boyd again. He had not noticed her critically. Mrs. Barrington had spoken of the likeness that had puzzled her in the beginning, the elusive resemblance to Mrs. Crawford in her girlhood, as for two years she had been at school. He paused at the door. She was standing by the window her profile distinctly outlined. It was classic, from the broad, shapely forehead, the down-dropped eyelids with their dark fringe, the straight nose with the fine, flexible nostrils, the rounded chin, the lips that seemed to shut in sadness and longing, but it was the poise of the head, the arching neck, the shoulders proud enough for a statue. It needed more real youthfulness for sixteen, but one could trace resemblances.

Did she feel the scrutiny? She turned. The front view was more girlish.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “mother is sleeping. Is it a bad sign for her to sleep so much?”

“It gives her rest and saves the wear on her nerves. You are a watchful nurse. Where did you learn so much?”

“I think it comes to you when one has done so much for you,” she answered quietly.

“Did you always live in that western country town?” he asked, just to make talk.

Lilian colored and hesitated. “When I was a baby mother went out to Wisconsin to her brother’s, I don’t remember anything of that. Yes, afterward we lived in Laconia until we came here; but, do you think she can—mend?” and she approached the bed.

Dr. Kendricks made a slow movement in the negative. “She has very little strength. Was she ill before she came here?”

“Long ago she had a fever, but I think now she has been weakly for a year or more. I was so anxious to keep in school. Oh, I ought to have helped more,” and the tears stood in her eyes. “For we were poor.”

She uttered the fact with a kind of prideful dignity. “She did everything for me and I had planned when I began to earn money that we would have a home—”

“Yes, you have been a good daughter,” and all this while she might have been living in a delightful manner in her father’s house, loving and beloved, the comfort of her mother! For she would have been a devoted daughter in that beautiful home. He hardened his heart against the dying woman, and walked quietly out of the room.

“The story must be true,” he admitted to Mrs. Barrington. “But I cannot tell what step to take first. Would you mind if I saw Mr. Ledwith? He has been the Crawford lawyer and was the brother’s executor. I am quite mystified and perhaps not capable of judging.”

“Why, I think that would be an excellent plan. Yes. He can tell better what steps to take. But Lilian will not leave the poor woman. I am not sure she believes the story. She does not count on any change but is glad to stay here with me and fit herself for earning a living. She has a very loyal nature.”

Mrs. Boyd roused and ate her dinner, then Lilian read her to sleep again. She begged not to be sent out to walk and Mrs. Barrington yielded.

At five Mr. Ledwith called, full of interest in the strange story and begged to see Mrs. Boyd, wondering if she would repeat it. Lilian was summoned.

“Oh, it would seem cruel to disturb her,” she cried with passionate tenderness, “and she suffered so in telling it the other evening. It cannot make much difference to me, since my own mother was killed, and my father may have been dead before that. I shall always hold her in my memory as my mother.”“But the woman who was killed may not have been your mother.”

Lilian started in surprise.

“There seems to be a reason why we should be certain in this. Trust me, I will not torment her needlessly.”

“My dear child it is best;” said Mrs. Barrington. “Can you not trust me?”

Lilian was not convinced but she led the way.

“Oh, where have you been so long?” cried the invalid. “You said you would stay—has some one come to take you away? Oh, you will not go. You promised. It will be only a little while.”

She fell into a pitiable terror. Lilian soothed. Mr. Ledwith tried to explain that they might possibly find the young girl’s father who was now a prosperous man.

But Mrs. Boyd would not be persuaded. She began to talk incoherently, and suddenly raising her head and leaning on one elbow said—“send them away. It is all true as I told you. You are not my own child, but I have loved you all these years, oh, you will stay with me! I can feel that it will not be for long. It is there in the drawer—I wrote it out. It took so long and I was so tired, so tired! Give it to them and send them away. Oh, Lilian, he is not your father. Promise me you will not go with him.”

Lilian opened the drawer. There lay quite a big packet, with the superscription,—“For my daughter Lilian when I am dead.”

She simply handed it to Mr. Ledwith. He and Mrs. Barrington left the room. Mrs. Boyd gave way to a wild fit of weeping and Lilian had much ado to comfort her, but presently she soothed her to slumber.

“Who heard this story or confession?” he asked as they entered the library.

“Mrs. Dane and Miss Arran.”

“Will they come and listen? They can tell whether the two will agree and point out any discrepancy.”

It was written in a shaky hand and evidently at intervals, many words misspelled and phrases repeated, but with a passionate sincerity and an overwhelming love for the child whose mother she thought dead, and she fancied the baby might be thrown on the charity of the world, but she knew even then it was not her baby but the longing for the child was pitiful. Mrs. Barrington was reading it and now and then her voice faltered.

“Oh,” said Miss Arran, “they are alike except that this seems more pathetic. There is no doubt of the truth in my mind. Of course she saw the difference as Miss Lilian grew older and she was afraid she might have defrauded her of some better fortune. Oh, I pity the poor woman profoundly. She had a hard life. Mrs. Barrington, this must have seemed a haven of rest to her. Providence must have guided you.”

“It is certainly remarkable,” subjoined Mr. Ledwith. “I will see Dr. Kendricks this evening, but I think we had better wait until after Christmas so as not to mar the happy reunion of that day. Then we must see how the Major will take it. It is one of the things he almost never refers to, and he was afraid of intensifying the loss by having the body brought here for burial. Truly there are many strange happenings in this world. I am requested to look up another child that was given out for adoption, and now has a fortune coming to it after twenty years.”