“You shall not talk of leaving me,” the girl cried passionately; adding in tones of wild rebellion against the fate she had no power to avert, “God would not be so cruel to me.” At this moment there was a crash of thunder that seemed to shake the tall tenement to its foundation, and the mother and daughter clung to each other almost in terror, the storm had arisen so suddenly. It was the evening of the day on which Oscar Hilton had told Iris the story of her true parentage. “How nervous I am to-night, mother. Let me close the window blinds, the rain is coming in through the broken pane, and if a drop should fall on Miss Hilton’s dress she would never forgive me. If it was her sister, Miss Iris, I should not be afraid.” Jenny’s voice ceased suddenly, for at this moment there was a low knock on the door. “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I fear this is Miss Hilton’s servant for the dress,” murmured the little seamstress, as she hastened to admit the visitor; but the look of distress on her face changed to one of intense astonishment as she saw who it was that waited to be admitted. “Miss Iris!” she could only ejaculate; and Iris came slowly into the room, seating herself on the nearest chair, like one who was very weary, while Jenny hastened to light a lamp, as the room was growing quite dark. “Oh, Miss Iris!” she cried in alarm, when her eyes first fell upon the changed countenance of the young lady, “you are in trouble; what can I do for you? I know I am only a poor sewing girl, and you a rich man’s daughter, but----” Until now Iris had been unable to speak, but here she interrupted: “Listen to me, Jenny: I have come to you to-night as poor and humble as yourself. You must not ask me to tell you all my story, but this you must know. I am no longer Iris Hilton, the rich man’s daughter; I must earn my bread even as you earn yours, by the labor of my hands. You have seemed so grateful for what little help I rendered you that I came to you to-night as to a friend--there, don’t cry, Jenny--I cannot cry; I do not feel as if I could ever shed a tear again. I would have gone to my friend Mrs. Laurier, but I could not. I am no longer in her social set, not that that would make any difference to her, but I simply could not take advantage of her friendship.” There was something so unutterably sorrowful in the tone in which these words were spoken that both Jenny and the sick mother shed tears of sympathy, and the sound of the latter’s low sobbing had the effect of rousing Iris from the bitter train of thought into which she had fallen. “Forgive me,” she said, in her sweet, gentle voice, as she approached the bedside and clasped the hand of the invalid. “I have been selfish to intrude my sorrows on you, but you shall see how cheerful I will be after to-night, for I am going to stay with you, if you will have me, and Jenny shall show me how to sew.”