In the darkness, to which her eyes gradually became accustomed, Miss Bethune consulted silently with a look the attendant by the bed; and receiving from her the slight, scarcely distinguishable, answer of a shake of the head, took the sufferer’s hand, and pressed it in her own. “I will bring her,” she said, “to-night, if you wish it, or to-morrow. I give you my word. If you think of yourself like that, whether you are right or not, I am not the one to disappoint you. To-night, if you wish it.” “Oh, to-night, to-night! I’ll surely live till to-night,” the poor woman cried. “And many nights more, if you will only keep quite quiet, ma’am. It depends upon yourself,” said the maid. “They always tell you,” said Mrs. Bristow, “to keep quiet, as if that was the easiest thing to do. I might get up and walk all the long way to see my child; but to be quiet without her--that is what is impossible--and knowing that perhaps I may never see her again!” “You shall--you shall,” said Miss Bethune soothingly. “But you have a child, and a good child--a son, or as like a son as possible.” “I a son? Oh, no, no--none but Dora! No one I love but Dora.” The poor lady paused then with a sob, and said in a changed voice: “You mean Harry Gordon? Oh, it is easy to see you are not a mother. He is very good--oh, very good. He was adopted by Mr. Bristow. Oh,” she cried, with a long crying breath, “Mr. Bristow ought to have done something for Harry. He ought to--I always said so. I did not want to have everything left to me.” She wrung her thin hands, and a convulsive sob came out of the darkness. “Ma’am,” said the maid, “I must send this lady away, and put a stop to everything, if you get agitated like this.” “I’ll be quite calm, Miller--quite calm,” the patient cried, putting out her hand and clutching Miss Bethune’s dress. “To keep her calm I will talk to her of this other subject,” said Miss Bethune, with an injured tone in her voice. She held her head high, elevating her spare figure, as if in disdain. “Let us forget Dora for the moment,” she said, “and speak of this young man that has only been a son to you for the most of his life, only given you his affection and his services and everything a child could do--but is nothing, of course, in comparison with a little girl you know nothing about, who is your niece in blood.” “Oh, my niece, my niece!” the poor lady murmured under her breath. “Tell me something about this Harry Gordon; it will let your mind down from the more exciting subject,” said Miss Bethune, still with great dignity, as if of an offended person. “He has lived with you for years. He has shared your secrets.” “I have talked to him about Dora,” she faltered. “But yet,” said the stern questioner, more and more severely, “it does not seem you have cared anything about him all these years?” “Oh, don’t say that! I have always been fond of him, always--always! He will never say I have not been kind to him,” the invalid cried.