The girl who had been wrongfully accused was not so light hearted. Mrs. Dane still preserved her suspicious aspect, and of course the whole school was eager for every bit of news. Lilian said nothing to her mother about the talk, she seemed rather fretful and uneasy, as if she was annoyed by the girl’s presence.

So on Thursday afternoon she went out for a walk. Just beyond the gate she saw Edith Trenham coming toward her.

“Oh, were you going out? Let us walk together, then. I have so much to say to you? Did you think it queer?”

“I know now,” said Lilian. “It was dreadful!”

“I had to go home for some important school papers, and just slipped in and out again when you saw me. Of course I did not want it spoken of. Mother has been very careful keeping the windows on that side of the house closed. Claire has never had any of the infantile diseases. The woman thought it measles at first, but they are so particular in the schools, now. We closed today. Mother is going to shut up the house for awhile and board at Mrs. Lane’s while they fumigate and burn up. The authorities have ordered the old house torn down. I think not a great many people visited her, though they did at first. I only hope the little girl will not die. Mother spoke to the oldest one that morning and she said her brothers were very ill and that her mother thought she would have a doctor, but it was too late when he came. Oh, I hope there will not be any more cases.”

“It would be terrible if they died like that. Our classes are dismissed as well, I believe there was a great fright among the girls, and just at Christmas time, too.”

“Will you go down with me tomorrow and have a look at the stores? This has upset our plans. I wanted you and your mother to come and take Christmas dinner with us.”

“Mother doesn’t seem at all well. I doubt if she could go out, and I couldn’t leave her for pleasure.”

“Well, some other time; and how are you getting along? I suppose you have vacation as well?”

“Oh yes. Madame thinks I shall acquire French easily. She reads French verses so splendidly, and I am doing well in Latin, but oh, there are such stores of reading! It is a hardship to tear myself away, and poetry just enchants me—well, when it is high and fine. I have begun ‘The Idylls of the King.’ Oh it must be just glorious to write such poetry!”

“It is a rare gift, and it is something to be able to read and appreciate.”

“I sometimes envy the girls who have so much leisure, yet they seem not to improve it. But then—oh, you don’t know how lovely it is here, how much there is to interest and satisfy. Of course I’m not quite satisfied at present,” and Lilian gave a light laugh, “but the town is so truly beautiful and the house—I wonder if it is silly but I walk about at times and do enjoy the soft rugs, the handsome furniture, the pictures, the beautiful bits of art scattered around, and oh, the books! There never was anything like it in my life before, and if I go back to comparative poverty, which I suppose I shall some day, for I never can earn any thing like this, it will linger in my mind as a journey to some enchanting place. There is so much to learn all the time. Not merely out of books but the sweet and gracious things one can do; Mrs. Barrington is so lovely. Am I tiring you with these visionary things?”“No, my dear girl, I am glad you can enjoy them and treasure them up without a feeling of envy. We cannot all of us abound in this world’s goods, but we can be glad someone has them and is willing to share them with us, at least, allow us to look on.”

“I’m going to study every day and get on as fast as possible. I’m longing for the time when I can earn money and have a little home of our own. I wish”—then she paused and recovering herself after a moment, resumed—“I wish to make some nice friends in my own walk in life, among those who really love to work and bring about results.”

“And I am sure you will do it. And loving whatever is fine and true and gracious shapes one’s character. God has given us the sense of enjoyment and he means us to make the best use of it that we can. Oh, we must turn about. See how far we have walked, and there is a baby crescent moon.”

The dun white of the sky was thinning into blue and here and there a star pricked through. It was clear and crisp yet the air had a fragrance of the cedars and spruces. They hurried along, and Lilian promised to meet her friend tomorrow for another walk. She had never been an effusive girl, but she could talk so easily to Edith and in the interchange she could throw off the things that annoyed or depressed her.

So they said good-night and she entered the pretty vestibule where she had first seen Mrs. Barrington. Her heart gave a quick bound as she thought of that lady’s confidence in her truth. Mrs. Dane must sometime be convinced of her injustice.

She ran lightly up the stairs, wondering a little that her mother’s room should be in darkness. Crossing over to the match safe she stumbled over something on the floor and struck a light in half terror.

“Oh mother! mother!” she cried to the prostrate figure. Then in sudden fear she called in the hall—“Oh, will some one come! I cannot tell what has happened to mother.”

Miss Arran answered. The face was deadly white and cold, the eyes half open, staring.

“Oh, she is dead! I went out to walk and staid too long.” Lilian’s voice was full of remorseful pathos.

“No,” said Miss Arran. “I think she has only fainted. Her heart beats a little; Let us lay her on the bed and I’ll get some restoratives. Is she accustomed to fainting?”

“Not like this. Oh poor mother!”They laid her on the bed, chafed her hands and bathed her face, using the lavender salts. After a little there was a faint respiration. Then she opened her eyes and murmured something.

“Mother, dear, what happened? And I was away.” “It will be better when—when I’m gone.” The vague glance seemed to study the girl with poignant anguish. “Oh, yes!—better—”

“You must not say that. You must live to let me repay you for all you have done for me, and we will be happy—”

She moved her head from side to side in dissent. “Oh, you do not know, but I did it for love’s sake. I could not live without my child.”

“Suppose we get her undressed, she will feel more comfortable. She has not looked well for the last week or two. Mrs. Barrington was speaking about it, but she is such a quiet body.”

Lilian opened the bed. She was girlishly glad her mother’s night dress was neat and lace trimmed, fit to go to her new home. So they soon had her easier and restful.

“I should like a cup of tea,” she said, weakly.

“I’ll get it,” and Miss Arran left the room.“Dear mother,” and Lilian patted the hands that were thin and cold.

“Oh, love me a little to the end, I’ve loved you so much. Whatever comes you will know I did it for love’s sake, and you must forgive.”

“There can be nothing to forgive. You have worked for me early and late. You must live and let me repay you, make you happy. If I have failed in the past I will try with all my soul and strength in the future. Think, every year brings us nearer the home I shall make for you. Oh, do not talk of dying!”

“You don’t know. I did not think of the wrong then. You were a motherless babe, then, and I was a childless mother. For you must know, you must have felt in your inmost soul that I was not your true mother.”

Lilian raised her head in the wildest dismay, and though she stared at Miss Arran she did not seem to see her. Many a time like a lightning flash the thought had swept over her, but it seemed awful to have it put in words, to have the certainty pierce through her like a sharp sword.

“Oh, mother, you do not know what you are saying. It is some wretched, horrid dream! You have been too much alone. You have brooded over this thought of our differences. Children and parents are often unlike. At all events I have never known any other mother. You must live and let me prove a true daughter.”

“I did not think there could be any wrong then. If you were cast on the world friendless, why should I not fill my aching heart with baby love. Yes, you did love me then, you clung to me. I never thought of there being someone else—a father, perhaps—oh, heaven help us both!”

She had raised herself soon after she began to talk; now she fell back on the pillow fainting. Lilian was sobbing. Miss Arran came to her relief.

“I think we must have a physician. I will see Mrs. Barrington.”

The faint was of short duration. Miss Arran was strangely mystified. Was Mrs. Boyd’s talk an hallucination or some secret kept for years that must needs make its way out at last? Had she any right to repeat it on mere suspicion?

Mrs. Barrington sent for Dr. Kendricks at once. Then she went to Mrs. Boyd’s room. How very frail she looked.

“My poor child,” the lady said, “this is very hard for you, and I think you did not come in to dinner. Suppose you go down stairs for awhile?”

“Oh, no, I must stay here. Poor mother—”

“Lilian,” murmured the feeble voice and the thin hand wandered out as if for a clasp.

She took it, pressed it to her lips, her firm, warm cheek. Should she pray for life? Would not God send what was best? Oh, that she might have strength to accept it. She raised her eyes to Mrs. Barrington in entreaty. Oh, who was she so like at that moment?

The doctor was announced. Miss Arran sat by the bedside. There was a lamp on the table and he asked that it might be lighted, making a close survey of the patient.

“Was there any shock? Her vitality is at a very low ebb. When was the first unconscious spell?”

“I was out,” began Lilian, tremulously. “She insisted that I should go and seemed to want to be alone. I staid longer than I meant, and found her fallen to the floor—”

Mrs. Boyd raised to a partly sitting posture and looked up with feverish eagerness.

“I went to put something in the chiffonier—you will find it, Lilian, in a box and the key is—oh, what did I do with it?”

“Never mind, dear,” in a soft tone.“But you must mind, and then I turned—it was my leg. It is heavy and I can’t raise it, but the ache is all gone.”

Dr. Kendricks turned down the blanket and examined the limb, nodding as if convinced.

“Oh,” she cried, “is it paralysis? Then it will not be long. My mother had two strokes a week apart, her mother never rallied from the first. I’m tired—worn out, and Lilian will be better off without me. She may find—I have written it all out—it’s there in the drawer—”

“Oh mother!” Lilian kissed her and put her back on the pillow where she gave a gasping sigh.

Dr. Kendricks beckoned Mrs. Barrington out of the room.

“She is in a very low condition and I doubt if she survives more than a few days. What about the girl—is it her daughter?”

“Why, yes—though they are very dissimilar; but she is a devoted daughter. The mother is caretaker, the daughter a student.”

“She seems to have exhausted nature. The fainting spells may be a method of rest. Let her sleep all she can. Very little can be done for her. I will leave some drops to be given if she is very restless and will look in in the morning. It is rather unfortunate this should happen to you, just now.”

“Oh, school has closed and there is plenty of help. I want everything done for her.”

Then Mrs. Barrington returned to the room. Miss Arran sat by the foot of the bed, Lilian was bathing her mother’s face.

“My child,” Mrs. Barrington said, “you had better lie down and get a little rest. We will watch—”

“No, I want Lilian,” entreated the mother. “You will not leave me? When I am a little rested I want to tell you how it came—”

“Yes, yes, but not now. I would rather stay here. It is my place, and now there are no other duties.”

So the hours wore on. Mrs. Boyd seemed to fall into a tranquil sleep. Lilian laid down on her own bed, and slept in a disturbed sort of fashion. Then morning came, and the house was astir.

“Oh, Miss Arran have you watched all night? How good you are!”

“I had several naps. Your mother was very quiet. She seems better. Mrs. Dane is coming in and you must get some breakfast. Then if we need a nurse—”

“Oh, no, do not have one. My place is here. Oh, Miss Arran,” and Lilian turned deadly pale, “you heard what she said last evening. It can’t be true. Would any one ever work and make sacrifices for a child not her own? She is my mother.”

Miss Arran nodded. “Unless she is much worse I do not think we will need a nurse. There will be so little to do in the house that I shall be quite at liberty.”

“Yes, Mrs. Boyd was much stronger,” the doctor admitted, though the case was not much more hopeful. A second stroke might end it all. “But she seems to have something on her mind. Is it anxiety about her daughter?”

“I have assured her that Lilian will be my charge. She has the making of an unusually fine scholar, and she is a high minded, honorable girl, sincere and ambitious.”

“The daughter has taken from somewhere a much stronger physical and mental equipment. What of the father?”

“Oh, he died when she was a mere infant.”

The embargo had been removed from Lilian and Mrs. Dane treated her with a sort of tolerant sympathy. She roamed about the deserted library and chose some books, a few girls waylaid her in the school room. Miss Nevins made an importunate appeal, quite forgetting her past disdain.

“Oh, why can’t you stay down here?” she cried. “It’s awful dull, and there’s no fun going on. Miss Graniss is going to take us down town when the stores are lighted up, but it’s so long to wait until evening.”

“Mother is ill and I want to stay with her,” Lilian returned coldly, provoked at the selfishness. She read awhile, then took up some embroidery. Miss Trenham came in with the gift of a beautiful volume of poems. Claire sent a little reminder in a most exquisite book mark. She was quite delighted in the change to another home, where there were two girls. “Could Edith do anything for them?”

“They are all so good here, and mother doesn’t need much, she seems to sleep a good deal.”

The sick girl at the Clairvoyant’s was improving. Not even a case of measles had been reported in town.

So the winter day drew to a close. Lilian watched the little procession starting out under the convoy of Miss Graniss. Yes, she had run out that way at Laconia—how long ago it seemed. Oh, she ought to have sent a few gifts to old girl friends. She had really no heart for gladness.

Lilian sat over by the gas burner reading that most beautiful Christmas part of “In Memoriam.” She almost heard the “happy bells ring across the snow,” so rapt was she in the poets charm. Then something stirred. Her mother was trying to raise herself.

“Oh mother—”

“Put the pillows around me, so, I want to sit up. I want to talk. I have been living it over. And I am surely going to that other country. I shall have my own two babies in my arms, and their father will come to meet me. I want to tell you how it was. It has come back so distinctly, much plainer than when I wrote it.”

Miss Arran had started to come in but paused at the door. Lilian’s back was towards her. Mrs. Dane going through the hall paused as Miss Arran held up her finger.

“Oh, mother, not tonight.”

“Yes, now. I feel so strong. After husband died my brother sent for me and wanted me to take up some land adjoining his. Mr. Holland, who was holding the life insurance—all I had, was not willing until I had seen what the place was like and he thought that kind of life very hard on women, but my brother was the only relative I had, though I had not seen him for years. After I had started I was frightened about the journey and the strange people. There was one woman with a baby, a bright, beautiful child with rosy cheeks and brilliant eyes. I supposed her the mother, for I saw her nurse the infant, and there was with them such a beautiful woman. She came to me in the night, and when I looked at her the last time she was dead,” and she sighed.

“We were most of us asleep when there was an awful crash. Then horrible shrieks and cries and being thrown about—”

“Oh, mother, don’t, don’t!” Lilian implored. “Your mind is wandering—”

“No, it is true, horribly true. It was one of the awful accidents of that time, more than fifteen years ago, but I suppose I became unconscious. My babe flew out of my arms; my little baby,” in a lingering tone as if the words were sweet to say.

“When I came to myself it was in a room where several were lying around on cots, and two women sat close together trying to hush the crying child.”“Give me my baby, I almost shrieked. Bring me my baby.”

“They brought it and I hugged it to my breast, gave it nourishment, cuddled it in my arms and I fell asleep full of joy. We both slept a long while. When I woke the woman brought me a cup of tea and some bread. I was ravenously hungry. Then I asked what had happened. It had been twenty-four hours.”

“It was a horrible accident at a place where tracks crossed. All day they had been clearing away the wreck and sending bodies into the nearest towns for this place was small. A number had been killed outright. Will you give me some of that tea in the tumbler?”

“Oh, mother, do not tell any more,” the girl pleaded, shuddering.

“Yes, I must, I must! When morning came the woman helped me up and I had some breakfast. I had been stunned and bruised, but no bones were broken.”

“We are so glad the baby was yours,” one of the women said. “The other poor baby and its mother was killed.”

“I went to the bed presently and turned down the blanket. There lay the lovely child warm and rosy, the picture of health. I devoured it with kisses. Yes, it was mine. God had saved it and sent it to me. It had no mother, so it was mine. I called it by my baby’s name, and I couldn’t have cared more for my own flesh and blood. You were so beautiful and bright—so fond and loving. On the other side of the room lay the lovely woman who had interested me so much. They thought her dying, she looked as if she were dead, I never saw anything more perfect. She was like sculptured marble. They were trying to get every one away and the next day an official questioned me and offered to make good any loss. I had my ticket pinned to the lining of my dress, and what money I had taken with me sewed up in a little bag. There had been a fire as well, and much of the baggage was burned. I had lost my trunk but they paid me its full value and more, and sent me on my journey.”

“I have told you what a dismal place my brother had in Wisconsin. There were five big, rough children. I was not fitted for farm work. I missed my old friends and so I went back to Laconia, but my whole life was wrapped up in you.”

“And many a time I must have seemed ungrateful. Oh, mother, when you did so much for me!” sobbed Lilian.“Oh, dear, I have thought it all out. You were not of my kind. It fretted me at first. You were always a little lady, doing things in a nicer way than most girls, and you were forever reading and studying. If we could have kept the boarding house,” in tones of regret, “but there was my long illness and the house was sold torn down for a great factory. Then I took up the sewing. It was easier in some ways. I liked Sally Marks and her mother so much. The gay jolliness and the merry chat. They were like two girls together. But your heart was set on the High School. Oh, Lilian, do believe I would have kept you there if I could. Then I began to wonder what your own mother and father had been like, and if your father was alive. Perhaps he could have done much better for you. The thought wore on me, and I was not well; I knew that. You see I should have had a girl who did not mind working in a shop and enjoying good times with other girls, going to parties and picnics and having lovers and marrying as I did, and having babies. I loved babies so. To be a grandmother to a little flock seemed very heaven to me.”

“Oh, mother, don’t! You will break my heart,” sobbed Lilian.“No, child, you were not to blame. God gave you all these high thoughts and ambitions; I never had any of them, and after we came here I understood it still better. You belonged to these kind of people, your ways were theirs, your ambition was right, and I was very thankful that such a refuge opened for us. You have been a good, devoted child. Tomorrow we will talk it over again. Now will you send for some toast and eat. Oh, Lilian, child, don’t cry. God will bring you out right and forgive me for what I did out of longing love.”

Lilian turned, Miss Arran took a step forward. “I will bring it to you,” she said, and she motioned to Mrs. Dane who stood like a statue.

“Let us go to Mrs. Barrington. She must know this,” she whispered.

Lilian bathed her face and readjusted her mother’s pillows. The whole world seemed in a daze about her. Yet she was not so much surprised either, but stunned, incapable now of judging whether there had been any right or wrong. If no one belonging to her had been found—and her own mother was among the killed, she might have been turned over to some foundling asylum.“I feel much better,” exclaimed Mrs. Boyd. “But, oh, Lilian, don’t pray for me to live, for I should be a helpless burden on you, and I’ll have my two own babies in heaven. I meant to do it for the best when I claimed you, and I think God will understand. It’s been a poor, broken sort of life but I’ve tried to do up to the lights I had, and yours will be better, higher. Mrs. Barrington appreciated you and will help you. God surely opened this way for us.”

Was it truly of God’s providence? She had longed so ardently for the refinements of life, the possibilities of education. Some times it seemed as if He answered petitions in the suppliant’s way and freighted them with another burden.

But if this should be laid upon her she would pray for strength to do her whole duty. It was hardly likely she would ever find any one belonging to her, that was too wild a thought. She would keep this generous foster mother as long as she needed love and care.