“You will come and see her, will you not? She looks like an angel, so fair, so pure, so peaceful!” the bereaved mother cried, on leaving, and in her gratitude for the woman’s kindness to Jessie she pressed on her a sum of money that seemed like riches itself to the toil-worn creature whose heart had kept warm and human through all the trials of pinching poverty. Mrs. Dalrymple hastened home and found Frank and Cora together, the latter having just returned from arranging to celebrate her marriage at her cousin’s home, instead of here. She was complaining most bitterly to her lover of her aunt’s injustice, but he said impatiently: “Cora, pray do not harp on this subject any more unless you would have me believe you heartless!” Her eyes flashed with resentment, but before she could utter the angry reply that trembled on her lips, Mrs. Dalrymple swept into the room, and between broken sobs, told them of her cruel discovery of her child’s identity when all too late to save her life. “Last night when she stood talking to you so sadly I was dazed, confused, by a subtle something in her voice, glance, and gestures that recalled the past,” she said. “At last it struck me with staggering force that she reminded me of my divorced husband, while at the same time she bore a startling resemblance to my lost child. I was struck dumb with emotion, and could not move! Then that terrible thing happened. You know the rest--how Doctor Julian found on her breast the family birthmark. To-day it was easy to find the links in the chain that proved her my own, so long lost to me, and found, alas, only in--death!” The pale, beautiful face drooped upon her breast in pitiful despair as she cried: “May God send his curse upon the man who made my life desolate, and robbed me of my child, my only comfort!” Frank Laurier’s handsome face was pale with emotion as he faltered: “Mrs. Dalrymple, I dare not ask you to forgive me for my share in your grief, it is beyond pardon. She did not forgive me, nor can you, I know. I feel that the sight of me must be hateful to you, so I shall trespass no longer on your hospitality. I leave to-day, but I pray you to believe that my undying remorse will be my bitterest punishment.” She could well believe it from his pallid face and dejected mien, but she could not bring the word forgive to her trembling lips. When she remembered the previous night and the shame and pain of her hapless child that had hurried her cruelly out of life she felt like crying out upon him in mad resentment for what he had done. As for Cora, she was stunned into silence by the strange story she had heard. She dared no longer inveigh against her aunt’s injustice. She could only bow to the inevitable. But fully determined not to risk the evil omen of a postponed marriage, she withdrew to her cousin’s house that day after forcing herself to utter some meaningless expressions of sympathy to the relative she was deserting in her hour of sorrow.