“Think what sorrows she may have escaped by her early translation to heaven. Is it not better thus than to have reached girlhood, as I did, to have her faith and love trampled in the dust, and her life saddened forever?” she cried, earnestly. “Ah, my dear, you do not understand. I had not finished telling you. She--my little darling, my unnamed daughter, did not die.” “Not die!” Cinthia echoed, in bewilderment. “No, she did not die, and I know not to this day whether she is alive or dead. She--was stolen--from me,” sobbed the bereaved mother, letting her head fall on the sill of the open window where they were sitting. Cinthia was so shocked for a moment that she could not speak. She could only throw her arms about the mourner and clasp her close with a love as true and warm as if she had been the dear lost daughter. The balmy summer breeze swept in caressingly over the two fair heads nestled close together, while Madame Ray sobbed: “Now you understand why I love you so, my dear. Not but that your own beauty and sweetness is enough to charm any heart. But when I found you in Washington that first day, a motherless girl scarcely past childhood, forsaken by your lover, wretched, desperate, almost driven to suicide, my heart went out to you in a passion of pitying love as I thought, my own child, if alive, is no older than this one. Who can tell but that she may be in an even more grievous strait than this poor girl, whom I will try to advise and befriend, praying Heaven to deal as kindly with my dear lost little one.” “Oh, you were an angel to me in that hour!” cried Cinthia, eagerly, gratefully. “Oh, I was wretched and desperate, as you say, weary of life and longing for death, almost driven by my humiliation to the awful sin of suicide. When I opened that door, intending to rush recklessly into the streets, careless of my fate, what terrible calamity might have happened me if I had not found you standing like an angel on the threshold, sent by God Himself to save me from myself. You drew me back, you pitied and advised me, you made me a better girl than I ever was before. And since that hour your love has been to me more than words can express, my anchor of hope in a stormy life, my refuge from despair, my haven of love. Oh, I have been ungrateful, nursing my woe in spite of all your goodness and patience. I will try to be braver and stronger, indeed I will. I will always remember the keen sorrows you have borne while you wore a smile of comfort and cheer for me. And, oh, I pray that God has given to your lost child as dear a comforter as I have found in you.” The words, poured forth in a passion of grateful emotion, ended in a burst of sobs, and they mingled their tears together and found subtle relief in each other’s sympathy. When they grew calmer, Madame Ray said softly in her low, flute-like voice: