"You are my mother, and you are dying," Mollie said, solemnly, bending down and kissing her. "I forgive you everything. But I will never set foot under Carl Walraven's roof again." CHAPTER XXVII. DEAD AND BURIED. The twilight was falling without--the last silvery radiance of the dying day streamed through the dirty, broken attic window, and lighted, as with a pale glory, Mollie's drooping head and earnest, saddened face. Miriam had fallen back upon the pillow, exhausted, panting, laboring for breath. There was a long pause; then Mollie lifted her bowed head and drew closer to the dying woman. "Finish your story," she said, softly, sadly. "It is finished," Miriam answered, in a voice, scarcely above a whisper. "You know the rest. I went to you, as you remember, the day after you landed, and proved to you that I was your aunt--a falsehood, Mollie, which my love and my pride begot. "Some dim recollection of me and your childhood's days yet lingered in your breast--you believed me. You told me you were going to K----. You gave me money, and promised to write to me. You were so sweet, so gentle, so pitying, so beautiful, that I loved you tenfold more than ever. Your life was one of labor, and drudgery, and danger. If I could only make you a lady, I thought! My half-crazed brain caught at the idea, and held it fast--if I could only make you a lady! "Like lightning there dawned upon me a plan. The man who had wronged us all so unutterably was rich and powerful--why should I not use him? Surely, it could not be wrong--it would be a just and righteous reparation. He need not know you were my child--with that knowledge I would far sooner have seen you dead than dependent upon him--but let him think you were his very own (Mary Dane's) dead child, and where would be the obligation? "I could neither sleep nor eat for thinking of this plot of mine. Your image, bright and beautiful in silken robes and sparkling jewels, waited upon by obedient servants, a life of ease and luxury for my darling whom I had deserted--a lady among the ladies of the land--haunted me by night and by day. "I yielded at last. I went to Carl Walraven, and stood boldly up before him, and faced him until he quailed. Conscience makes cowards of the bravest, they say, and I suppose it was more his guilty conscience than fear of me; but the fear was there. I threatened him with exposure--I threatened to let the world know his black crimes, until he turned white as the dead before me. "He knew and I knew, in our heart of hearts, that I could do nothing. How could I substantiate a charge of murder done years ago in France?--how prove it? How bring it home to him? My words would be treated as the ravings of a mad-woman, and I would be locked up in a mad-house for my pains.