They had both divined that there had been some terrible sorrow in the girl's life--some sorrow that had struck her down and brought her to the brink of the grave. They knew, too, that she must be a lady of good birth and refinement. But never by word or deed did they distress her by the least symptom of curiosity. They had gone still further--when she attempted to say anything, Mrs. Chalmers had laid kindly fingers on her trembling lips, and said: "Hush! Wait till you are stronger and better, my dear and then you shall talk." But now the time had come when she knew that she must speak to them--must thank them for such kindness as the world rarely shows--must tell them how she was dead, but had risen to this new, fresh life in which the past was to have neither share nor place. The task was terrible to her, but she must undergo it. It seemed a direct answer to her thoughts when the door opened, and Dr. Chalmers came in with his mother. The doctor carried with him a bunch of purple grapes, which he laid before her. "How kind you are to me!" she said, with trembling lips. "I have been thinking all the morning. How can I thank you? How can I ever repay you?" "Doctors never expect thanks," said Dr. Chalmers; "and we are repaid by your recovery." But the beautiful eyes were filled with tears. She took the old lady's hand and raised it to her lips. The doctor held up his finger in warning, but Hyacinth said: "Let me speak--do let me speak. I cannot live in this silence and constraint any longer." "Let her speak, Robert," said his mother; "it is best." Hyacinth kissed again the kindly hand she held in hers. She took the doctor's and clasped them both together. "You have been so kind to me," she said. "I can never repay you. I have no money to pay even for the necessaries you have given me. I know you do not want it, but I cannot understand how it is that you have been so good to me." "My dear child," cried Mrs. Chalmers, "we have done nothing but what every Christian should. You came by accident to us, sick unto death, unhappy, friendless, and homeless, as it seemed--what less could we do than to take you in and succor you? We could not send you sick and almost dying into the streets." "No! but you might have sent me to some hospital. I am sure that few would have done to me as you have done." "We have only done what we thought to be right--no more." "What you have done to me," returned Hyacinth, "I pray Heaven to return to you a thousandfold. I can never sufficiently thank you, but I want to say something else to you." Her face grew so white, and her lips trembled so, that the doctor was on the point of forbidding another word. She looked piteously at him. "Let me speak," she said; "the weight on my heart is so great I can hardly bear it. Were I to do what I wish, I should tell you all my story; but think of me as mercifully as you can--I am dead in life." They looked at her in utter wonder. In the same faint voice she continued: