“Well, supposing we say two hundred, and the place.” “I will give the money.” “And the place?” “Yes, yes, or its equivalent; go on.” “Well, yes, I can trust you; for you are a real lady, and no mistake.” Mrs. Judson opened her work-table drawer, which stood within reach, took a portemonnaie from it and gave Jane two crisp one-hundred dollar-bills without speaking a word. “No mistake about that; you _are_ a lady.” Mrs. Judson made an impatient gesture with her hand. “Go on. Where is this young person?” “In her grave.” Mrs. Judson uttered a sharp cry, and half started from her chair. “No, no, I’m going just a little too far. She isn’t buried yet. I managed to keep all that back twenty-four hours; but she is in her pine coffin with about the scantest shroud on you ever saw; and unless you stop it, she’ll be taken off in the next boat-load.” “Woman! woman! what are you talking of?” cried Mrs. Judson, starting to her feet in a wild fit of excitement, all the composure of her pride gone, all her sublime calm swept away. “Is that poor child really dead. Tell me at once what you know of her.” Mrs. Judson stood in the middle of the room, wringing her hands, and shivering as if a cold blast were sweeping over her. Jane looked upon her with a gleam of triumph in her eyes. At last she had made the haughty woman feel. “This, madam, is what I know of her. About five weeks ago she came to the hospital.” “What hospital?” “Bellevue, the poor-house hospital. The people who come there are all paupers.” Mrs. Judson lifted both hands, as if to ward off a blow. “Mercy! have some mercy!” she cried; “you are spiteful! you have been sent by some cruel enemy to torture me.” “Not a bit of it, ma’am; I am telling you nothing but the truth,” answered Jane, settling her shawl and pinning it afresh; “about five weeks ago she came to the hospital, a quiet, heart-sick, little thing, that seemed afraid to say her soul was her own. I don’t generally take much notice of the women, so many are coming and going, but she was so pretty and quiet, that I did now and then give her an extra turn of attention. She was half the time crying, and the other half writing or looking out of the windows, gloomy as the grave, speaking to no one, except it was another young thing like herself that no human creature seemed to know anything about, but _so_ beautiful and humble. Well, it’s no use talking; those two young creatures were ladies, and that I was sure of from the first. Well, when the time came, this one, she who owned the book, died.” Mrs. Judson had partially recovered from the shock which Jane had given her, and resumed her seat, pale and shivering, but resolute to listen more calmly. “Did—did she suffer greatly?” “Yes; it would set you off again if I was to say how much; both she and the baby died.” “The baby?” “Yes, of course; I thought you understood that!”