With her increasing infirmities, the young wife, when daily expecting to become a mother, grew very shy and timid. She seldom went down into the ladies’ parlor—that neutral ground upon which acquaintances are sometimes made, and even friendships occasionally formed; and when she did go for a little change, she would conceal herself between the curtain and sash of some front window, and so, hidden from the company, look out upon the brilliant life of Sacramento Street until the utter weariness that now so frequently overcame her strength compelled her to creep away to the repose of her own private apartment. Toward the last of her life she gave up entirely going to the ladies’ parlor, and confined her walk to the stairs and halls between her bedchamber and the public dining-room. This walk was her only exercise, her only change of scene, and she continued it daily to the last day of her life. She made no new acquaintances in place of those who had gone away. She had no friend except an humble one in the chambermaid who attended to her room. In many respects she was worse off in this elegant and luxurious house than she would have been in the rudest log cabin of a mining camp, for here, though she had everything else, she lacked what she would have got there—human companionship and sympathy. Often she longed—wildly longed—to see or hear from her husband, but knew that it was impossible for her to do so. Yet she had one great stay and comfort—her Christian faith. She was devoutly religious and spent much time in her room in reading the Bible, or some book of devotion, or in prayer, or in singing in a low tone some favorite hymn. So the time passed until about six weeks after The O’Melaghlin had gone away to seek his fortune, when there came a change. She fell too ill to go down to dinner that evening. The friendly chambermaid, who volunteered to bring her a cup of tea, also offered to spend the night with her. Moira gratefully accepted these services. Before midnight the girl had to call the night watchman and get him to send a messenger out for the nearest physician, who came promptly in answer to the call. Moira saw the sun rise once more for the last time. Then she died, leaving behind her a pair of healthy twins—a boy and a girl. Her death was so sudden, so unexpected, that it seemed as if a bright, strong torch had been instantly inverted and extinguished. Then there was a commotion and a sensation in the hotel. Where was the husband of the dead woman, the father of the motherless babes? The office book was searched to see who was the party who had taken Room 777 seven weeks previous, and the register showed the name of T. O. Mannikin and wife, Ogly, Ireland. This was the manner in which the hurried clerk of the hotel had heard and entered the name and address of The O’Melaghlin. The attendant physician gave his certificate as to the natural cause of death, so that there was no need of a coroner’s inquest.