“Where is her child?” she murmured. “Where has she left her child? she had it in her arms yonder, when she stood by the door, and they say the mark of her footsteps hath been ever there, since then--but where is her child? has she killed her child?” There were footsteps ascending the stairs. Edith turned in some fear to see who was approaching. “Ha!” cried the wild, shrill voice. “She trembles before me--she fears mine eye. Thou coward, thou art lesser than I in thy very heaven. False heart! Craven! I laugh thee to scorn--thou canst not stand before me.” The step drew near. Edith looked anxiously from the door; she scarcely heard the loud incoherent ravings of the sick woman’s voice. Through the open door of the ante-chamber she saw a man approaching--it was Sir Philip Dacre. “Mistress Edith,” he exclaimed, hurriedly, “is my mother stricken? Ah, I trembled for this--and thou hast come to her in pity. God reward thee--for thou art like the angels of His own dwelling place.” He hurried forward to the bedside. “Art thou here, Philip?” said the raving Lady Dacre; “and did’st thou meet yonder coward flying from before me? She came to exult over me; she came to see me suffer; she, thou knowest, Edith, whom men say I helped to slay; but she feared mine eye, Philip; she remembered, the craven, how she was wont to quail before me, and she has fled!” The lady raised herself and looked round once more. “She is not gone? Edith--Edith--Philip, thou hast wept for her; she will go if thou dost bid her go.” “Mother,” said Philip Dacre, earnestly, “mother, think of thyself now; there is none here but a mortal maiden of thine own kindred, who comes to help thee in mercy. Mother, let us tend you. When were you stricken? Oh! God, is there no hope?” “See you,” said his mother, in a whisper. “See you how she steals yonder? There is no footfall--thinkest thou, thou could’st hear the footfall of a spirit? and lo! you, Philip, she looketh gentle, an angel in heaven. Where is her child? Send her away,” she cried, suddenly starting in wild passion, “send her away. Think ye I will die in her presence? Nay, nay, nay, send her hence, she will go if you command her.” Edith hurriedly left the room; she heard, as she lingered in the ante-chamber for a moment, the wild voice sink in its raving, and then she left the house to seek a nurse. Along the silent, echoing streets, with fear and wonder rising in her mind tumultuously, Edith hastened to seek help. What this mysterious connection was, she had never ascertained; but the melancholy light which enshrined the memory of her young mother, threw its pale radiance strangely over this death-bed; but Edith’s marveling shaped itself into no definite question. She was too eager in her errand; her hasty search for help to the Lady Dacre.