“I should ask God to forgive me; and if the person so much concerned was within my reach I should confess it to him, I think.” There was a bitter cry, and Gertie saw great drops of sweat on Mrs. Barrett’s brow as she moaned: “Yes, that is it,—only I must reverse it. Confess to her first, and then I can dare to pray, which I cannot now. Oh, Gertie, Gertie,—never, never tell a lie as long as you live.” She was very much excited, and seemed at times to be out of her head, and talked queer things of the _blue-eyed baby_, “the child who she thinks is dead.” “Oh, where is it now, and what was its fate?” she kept whispering to herself, and once, as Gertie bent over her to bathe her head, she said, “Are you she,—the girl, the child, you know?” “No, I am only Gertie; try to sleep and not talk any more to-night. You will be better in the morning and can tell Mrs. Schuyler,” Gertie said, feeling intuitively that Edith was the person concerned in the secret troubling the guilty woman so much. She was sure of it when Mrs. Barrett answered: “Yes, I must tell her. I must. Heaven give me strength to do it.” Perhaps this was the first genuine prayer she had ever made, and as if already better for it she became more quiet and slept sweetly till the dawn of the morning, when Edith came to see how she had passed the night and relieve Gertie of her watch. “Go to bed now, child,” she said, “and I will see that you are not called till lunch. You must be very tired.” Gertie obeyed, and going to her own room, the adjoining one, was soon in a deep sleep, while Edith took her place by Mrs. Barrett’s bedside. CHAPTER LI. THE STORM BURSTS. “Are you cold?” Edith asked, as she saw how her mother trembled, and taking one of the hands which lay outside the bed, she was going to chafe and rub it, when her mother snatched it away, and raising herself upright, cried out: “Don’t touch me, Edith, till you have heard my story, then curse me if you will and let me die; but first open that square box there in the corner, and in my writing desk find the letter you wrote to _him_,—you know,—the letter which I kept,—you remember it.” Edith remembered it well, and she trembled in every joint as she did her mother’s bidding, and brought the time-soiled letter, which seemed to burn the hand which held it, and to communicate to her a presentiment of the terrible shock awaiting her. That her mother’s story had something to do with her past life she was sure, but she never dreamed of the truth as she brought the letter and offered it to her mother.