Pansy’s eyelids felt too tired and heavy to lift from her eyes, but she seemed to struggle back to consciousness and hear those words spoken above her head. In that moment, too, came a confused memory of the stormy scene with her mother when she had been forced to tell all her story and to bear such bitter reproach and shame as almost maddened her, so that she was glad of the unconsciousness that stole upon her, blotting out for a few weeks all the bitter past and shameful present. Yes, it had been three weeks since that terrible night, and when Pansy heard those words spoken over her head in her mother’s voice she guessed aright that she had had a dangerous illness. She opened her blue eyes with an effort, and saw the doctor standing with her mother by the bed. “See--she is conscious at last. She will begin to get well very fast now,” he said, and gave her an encouraging smile; but Pansy had none to give in return. It seemed to her that she should never smile again. When he had gone, she looked wistfully at her mother, without daring to speak, fearing to hear again the scathing reproaches with which she had been assailed that night; but Mrs. Finley had been softened by her daughter’s illness, and she spoke to her very kindly: “My dear, you have been ill three weeks of fever, but the doctor thinks you are going to get well now.” Pansy thought of the words she had overheard: “It would be better, perhaps, for my poor girl if she had died.” She could not speak just yet, but her big, mournful blue eyes asked a question that Mrs. Finley quickly understood. “Yes, it is all over long ago. It happened that night when I kept you from running away. You were so ill you never knew.” She paused, but the big, beseeching blue eyes were still asking silent questions, and, putting her hand up to her face, Mrs. Finley said, in a broken voice: “Your child only lived one day, Pansy. It was better so.” “Dead!” That one wailing cry broke the stillness, then low and bitter sobs heaved Pansy’s breast. The mother who had never seen the face of her child was weeping over its death. “It was better so, my dear, better so. Had it lived it could but have added to your disgrace,” Mrs. Finley kept repeating, and at last the poor girl, stung by the words, answered petulantly: “How can you talk of disgrace? I told you that I was the wife of Norman Wylde.” “You were deceived, my poor child,” answered her mother sadly. “Deceived!” “Yes, Pansy. I told Mr. Finley everything. He went to Washington to find out the truth. My poor girl, that villain deceived you. There was no license taken out; there was no minister of the name you told me, and you had no marriage certificate. By your confidence in a villain against whom we all warned you, you have ruined yourself and brought disgrace upon your relations.” There was a long, long pause of utter consternation, then the stricken girl moaned pitifully: