When they returned, several hours later, with the minister, Mrs. Flint was informed of what was about to occur, and begged her new-found nephew to let her have the services of the man of God first for a dying sinner. “Poor Rachel Dane is going fast, and she is afraid to die, poor soul! We must try to hold a light for her feet, as she goes groping down into the dark valley,” she said, pitifully. “Has her life been so wicked?” he asked, wonderingly; and the old lady answered: “She has lived without God, and her sins are many. She made a most interesting confession awhile ago, and I would like for you to go and hear it, dear nephew, from Madame Ray, while the minister is engaged with Rachel.” Mrs. Flint spoke with such a glad and cheerful smile, that he was quite puzzled. He was sorry for the dying woman, but not much interested in her sins and confessions. His thoughts were hovering around Cinthia. She had been carried unconscious from Mr. Dawn’s room, and only revived to go into such hysterical spasms that they almost feared for her life. It was thought best to quiet her by strong opiates, and she had been sleeping heavily now for hours. Poor Cinthia! They had thought the truth would not shock her now, because she was betrothed to another; but they had been terribly mistaken. The hopeless love that had tortured her heart with secret pain threatened to end in death or madness, now that they had told her that Arthur was her brother. With an aching heart, the young man turned his steps to her door to ask Madame Ray how the hapless girl fared. Meanwhile, the lady had hurried from Rachel’s death-bed back to Cinthia’s room. Kneeling down, she pressed joyful kisses on the sleeping face, so pale and woeful even in slumber, so that it was easy to guess at last the guarded secret of that young heart--the love that had never strayed from its object through long and hopeless years. Softly, tenderly the happy mother drew aside the soft folds of lace and lines, and laid bare the beautiful white bosom of her daughter, searching until she found, just above the heart a remembered birthmark--a tiny crimson cross. “The birthmark of the Rays! Oh, how well I remember this! Oh, my darling, my own, you are indeed my lost treasure! No wonder that I have always loved you so! It was the mother-heart that claimed you!” she cried, gladly, longing for Cinthia to awake and learn the happy truth that she was her own daughter, and not at all related to Arthur, whom she might marry when she would, only for the rash promise given to Fred Foster in a moment of reckless pride. “Poor fellow! This will be sad news for him; but I believe that he will be generous to dear Cinthia,” she concluded; and sat down to watch the sleeper with the glad eyes of love. It was awhile later that she heard a timid rap at the door, and found Arthur waiting outside, with a grave, sad face, though he said cheerfully: “I have come to invite you and Cinthia to a wedding.” “A wedding?”