She had met the merciless injury inflicted on her with a rare patience, with an admirable courage. It is due to Mr. Vanborough to admit that he broke her heart, with the strictest attention to propriety. He offered (through his lawyer ) a handsome provision for her and for her child. It was rejected, without an instant’s hesitation. She repudiated his money--she repudiated his name. By the name which she had borne in her maiden days--the name which she had made illustrious in her Art--the mother and daughter were known to all who cared to inquire after them when they had sunk in the world. There was no false pride in the resolute attitude which she thus assumed after her husband had forsaken her. Mrs. Silvester (as she was now called) gratefully accepted for herself, and for Miss Silvester, the assistance of the dear old friend who had found her again in her affliction, and who remained faithful to her to the end. They lived with Lady Lundie until the mother was strong enough to carry out the plan of life which she had arranged for the future, and to earn her bread as a teacher of singing. To all appearance she rallied, and became herself again, in a few months’ time. She was making her way; she was winning sympathy, confidence, and respect every where--when she sank suddenly at the opening of her new life. Nobody could account for it. The doctors themselves were divided in opinion. Scientifically speaking, there was no reason why she should die. It was a mere figure of speech--in no degree satisfactory to any reasonable mind--to say, as Lady Lundie said, that she had got her death-blow on the day when her husband deserted her. The one thing certain was the fact--account for it as you might. In spite of science (which meant little), in spite of her own courage (which meant much), the woman dropped at her post and died. In the latter part of her illness her mind gave way. The friend of her old school-days, sitting at the bedside, heard her talking as if she thought herself back again in the cabin of the ship. The poor soul found the tone, almost the look, that had been lost for so many years--the tone of the past time when the two girls had gone their different ways in the world. She said, “we will meet, darling, with all the old love between us,” just as she had said almost a lifetime since. Before the end her mind rallied. She surprised the doctor and the nurse by begging them gently to leave the room. When they had gone she looked at Lady Lundie, and woke, as it seemed, to consciousness from a dream. “Blanche,” she said, “you will take care of my child?” “She shall be _my_ child, Anne, when you are gone.” The dying woman paused, and thought for a little. A sudden trembling seized her. “Keep it a secret!” she said. “I am afraid for my child.” “Afraid? After what I have promised you?” She solemnly repeated the words, “I am afraid for my child.” “Why?” “My Anne is my second self--isn’t she?” “Yes.”