“Why, sister? yes it is; and you are real good, and you’ll come some day, and find me waiting for you right by the door; but, Georgie,”—and Annie’s lip began to quiver as there suddenly recurred to her mind the perplexing question which had troubled her so a few hours before, and which Jack had said Georgie might answer,—“but, Georgie, lay me down, please; on the pillow, so,—that’s nice; and now tell me where is my mother,—if Jack’s and your mother was not mine.” The great blue eyes of the child were fixed intently upon Georgie, who started and staggered backward as if smitten with a heavy blow. Edna had stolen from the room, and only Jack was there, sitting in a distant corner. To him Georgie turned quickly, and asked, under her breath: “What does this mean? Who has been disturbing her?” “It was the merest accident,” Jack said, coming forward at once. “A chance remark I made about her not being mother’s own child. _Your secret_ is safe, if that is what you fear.” He said the last in a low tone, and then walked back to his seat upon the sofa. For a few moments Annie lay quiet, and Georgie hoped she might have forgotten that her question was unanswered, but she soon roused up and returned to the subject so painful to Georgie. “How will I know my mother if I never saw her here, and don’t know how she looks nor who she was?” she said, and her eyes held as by a spell poor remorseful Georgie’s, who faltered out: “Your mother is not in Heaven, Annie.” “Not in Heaven?” and the paroxysm of terror was something fearful to witness as Annie writhed upon her pillow. “Where is she then? Not in the bad place? Not there? My mother! Oh Georgie, oh Georgie.” Every word was a moan as the frightened child clutched Georgie’s hand and demanded of her whether her mother was lost forever. She did not seem to remember that she must have had a father, too; it was all “my mother, my mother,” until Georgie could bear it no longer, and said to her in a whisper: “Your mother is not dead. She is living somewhere.” “Then why don’t she come to see me? Mothers always take care of their sick little girls, don’t they?” Annie asked, and Jack, who could see the anguish written on his sister’s face, pitied her as he had never done but once before in his life. “Oh, Annie, you break my heart; don’t ask me about your mother. I cannot, cannot tell. Oh, Father in Heaven, this is worse than death,” Georgie moaned, as she knelt upon the floor by Annie’s bed and covered her face with her hands. But amid her pain she did not forget to be cautious, and said to Jack, “Please shut the door. I cannot have witnesses to my degradation.” He did as she bade him, and then said to her: “Had you been open, Georgie, from the first, this would have been spared to you.” Perhaps he was wrong to chide her then when her cup of wretchedness was full. She thought so at least, and replied to him: