Just then, Ernestine turned, as though awakening, and the clock began to strike twelve. Through the dozen slow strokes she did not move again, but the moment they ceased, she moaned just a little bit, in a feeble, tired way, and opened her eyes. At the same instant, Mrs. Dering held a tiny glass to her lips, raised the pillow and said quietly: "Drink, dear." Ernestine did so, unresistingly, and lay for several minutes perfectly quiet, with her eyes wide open; and then they began to grow startled, and went suddenly to Bea's face, and stopped there. Bea smiled, notwithstanding she was trembling violently, and leaving her seat, came to the bed. But Ernestine was not noticing her now; she was looking all about the room in a terrified way, and suddenly sat up straight in bed, pushed her hair back, and saw her mother. For an instant she did not seem to know what it was she wanted; but it came to her suddenly, and with a beseeching cry, she threw out her arms. "Oh, mama, mama! is it true? Am I somebody else's child?" Bea turned away, and fell into her chair again, unable to see that pitiful, anguished face; and Mrs. Dering, sitting down on the bed, drew the trembling figure closely to her heart. "My darling, you are my own dear little girl--" but Ernestine interrupted, with a pitiful cry: "Oh! tell me if that letter is so, or if it means some other Ernestine? just tell me that, quick, mama, oh please do!" What could Mrs. Dering say, with those clinging arms about her neck, and that pleading face, and the despairing eyes never moving from hers? "You are dreaming, darling," she began soothingly; but Ernestine threw her head back, and her voice rose to a terrified shriek: "You won't tell me; you won't tell me," she cried wildly. "Oh, I must know if it is true; I must. Oh, mama, say it isn't; tell me that you are my own mama, that the letter don't mean me; oh mama! mama!" "Ernestine, darling, listen;" said Mrs. Dering, with the tears running down her pale face. "You shall know the truth. You have been my little girl ever since you were two months old, but your own mother gave you to me just before she went to heaven, and she was my--;" but it was needless to say more; Ernestine gave a little moan, and dropped her head, and Mrs. Dering was sobbing, as she laid her back on the pillow; while Bea ran for some water. CHAPTER XII. THE STORY. Mrs. Dering and Ernestine were alone; Ernestine had asked for the story of her own, or rather her mother's life, and now lay with her face turned away, while Mrs. Dering held her hand in that loving clasp, and began telling it quietly: