Edith could speak now, though the effort to do so almost tore open her throat, where her heart seemed palpitating so wildly. Seizing her mother’s shoulder she shook it fiercely as she put the question: “Was that a _lie_, too?” “_Yes, Edith, that was a lie, too!_” Mrs. Barrett’s voice was a whisper, but had the words been uttered in tones of thunder they could not have written themselves more distinctly on Edith’s mind than they did. “_That was a lie, too!_” she repeated, rising to her feet, and seeming, to her horror-stricken, remorseful parent to grow tall and terrible in her excitement, as she clutched the shoulder more fiercely, and said: “That was a _lie_, too, was it? Mother, as you hope for heaven tell me the whole truth now. Baby was not dead _then_ when you said she was?” “No, Edith, not dead then——” “_Is she dead now?_” and the hand pressed so hard upon the thin shoulder that Mrs. Barrett cringed with pain, but did not shake it off, and scarcely knew what was hurting her, as she replied: “I don’t know, Edith.” “_You don’t know!_ Tell me what you _do_ know, and tell me truly, too, as you will one day confess to heaven when you are questioned of the great wrong done to me.” Edith was wonderful in her excitement, with her blazing eyes and livid face, and her mother gazed at her an instant fascinated and unable to reply; then, closing her eyes again, she said: “I will tell you all I know. I went to the hospital and meant to bring her to you. I did, Edith,—believe me there. I meant to bring her to you, for I knew no other way. But when I inquired for the child _Heloise_ left there at such a time, I was told that it had been taken by a woman whose name was _Stover_. The woman had given good references, they said, and was the mother of one of the nurses. She, too, lived in Dorset Street, not far from our old quarters. I’ve got the number,—there, on that letter you wrote to Colonel Schuyler,—and three or four months afterward I went there and inquired for the woman, but she was dead, and the people who occupied the floor above said her daughter had taken the baby and gone away with it in a handsome carriage, and _that_ is all I know,—truly, Edith, _all I know_. I’ve never been able to trace her, though I tried once, just after you left me to come here. I missed Gertie so much, and wanted her so much that I began to think of looking for the grandchild, who would have been about her age, and I tried to find her, but could not. I don’t believe she is dead. I never have, and you, with money and influence, can track her sure, and you will; this is what you promised. I shall be dead, but shall rest easier in my grave if you find her. Edith, why don’t you speak, if it is only to curse me. Anything is better than this awful silence,” she implored, and then, as there came no answer, she opened her eyes and turned them toward her daughter, who stood over her as white and rigid as if frozen into stone.