Mary Margaret sat down with the basket upon her knees. “Was it one, or both, ye asked? Arrah, but I wish it was both, that I could tell ye of; but I saw one poor crathur carried out in a wooden coffin, wid two breadths of factory cotton on her for a shroud, and for all that she looked like a marble image, wid the raven black hair parted on her white for’ed, and the lids folded so could-like over her eyes, that had been black as stars and as bright as dimints.” “Black eyes? Did you say that the poor girl who died had black eyes and hair?” exclaimed Louis. “Black as midnight, yer honor, eyes and hair—more, by the token, I closed them two eyes mysel’, and the color sunk into my heart!” The young men looked at each other almost wildly. “This is very strange!” said George. The lips of the younger brother were white as marble, and when he tried to answer, they gave forth no sound. “And the one who lived?” said George, with increasing agitation,—“was she dark like the other?” “Dark, did ye say? Why, her hair was like burning gold, and her eyes—the bluest bit of sky ye ever saw was nothing to ’em. Thin her face, it was white as a lily wid a taste of red just in the mouth and cheeks. She looked like a born beauty in spite of the narrow bed and checkered covering, the day I went out of the hospital, and followed me with her great lovin’ eyes all the way down the ward, as if she knew I was the friend to stand by her.” “But you left her alive?” said George, growing more and more excited. “In course I did!” “And had no proofs of her death after?” “Proofs, yer honor? What proofs could I have of her death, when she came her own self to my home, after that, and slept in the same bed wid the childer for a whole month, to say nothing of the strange baby, as the other poor crathur left ahint her.” “Stop!” said George, starting up with a flush upon his forehead, while his whole frame quivered with excitement. “Be careful what you say. A mistake in this matter would be madness to us both. Are you sure, my good woman, quite sure, that the fair girl came forth alive from that hospital, and that the other died there?” “Quite sure? Faix and I am, if one’s own blessed eyes are to be trusted. Didn’t I straighten one out for her coffin, and nurse the other into life when she lay at death’s door—to say nothin’ of the bit of a baby!” “One word more, Mrs. Dillon. Do try and remember. Did either of these young creatures ever call each other by name in your hearing?” “Faix, and they mentioned a good many names, I’m thinking, especially the fair one; but they seemed to mane nothing.” “But among those names was that of George or Louis ever mentioned?” “Agin and agin, yer honors; but it was in the fever, not atween themselves.”