It was right, Miss Rossiter knew, that Edith should come to her sick daughter, and she gave her consent graciously, though there was in her heart a feeling of aversion to the woman who had taken Emily’s place, and whom she had always disliked. Still in her own house she must be polite and courteous, and she received Mrs. Schuyler kindly, and made her rest awhile and take some refreshment before she went to Gertie, who was sleeping and must not be disturbed. “She would not know you, though she talks of you sometimes,” Miss Rossiter said, “and you must be careful not to excite her in the least.” Edith promised to do whatever Miss Rossiter thought was proper. “Only let me go to her at once,” she said. “You know I have not seen her in nineteen years, and _she_ my own child, too.” “Not seen her? What do you mean?” Miss Rossiter asked, a suspicion of Edith’s sanity crossing her mind. “I mean I have not seen her, knowing she was my daughter,” Edith replied, as she followed to the room where Gertie lay so white and still, her bright hair tucked away beneath a silken net, a red fever spot on cheek and lips, and her hands folded upon her bosom just as she kept them for the most of the time while with Godfrey she went sailing over the golden sea to the country so far away. She was on her journey thither when Edith came in, and, parting the curtains cautiously, stood looking at her, while in fancy she was a young girl again in the dreary room in Dorset Street, and the rain plashed against the windows, and ran down the panes in dirty streams, and the roar of the great city sounded in her ears, and she heard the lodgers’ steps upon the stairs, and her baby was in her arms, nestled so close to her that she felt the warm, tender flesh against her own, just as she felt that of the sick girl, whose face and neck, and hands she touched so carefully, and yet with such a world of love and tenderness, as she whispered to herself: “Little girley, little baby, little Gertie, my very own little one, you are changed since that dreadful day so many years ago, but I know that you are mine. They took you from me when I was asleep, and now, when I see you again, I find you sleeping too. Darling little child, do you know it is your mother standing here and talking to you thus? Will you ever know, ever open your eyes on me and call me mother? Oh, Father in Heaven, spare her to me,—spare my precious child!” This was what the colonel heard Edith say; for, feeling anxious for her, he stood just outside the door, and when her voice ceased and he heard a rustling sound, he went in, and, supporting her with his arm as she sank into a chair, held her head upon his bosom, and soothed her tenderly.