“It is her heart again!” Fair cried. “Oh, it has been so long since she had one of these attacks! Those wretches have done this,” she went on bitterly, as she applied herself to the task of restoring her mother. Mrs. Fielding had been subjected to these attacks, which her physician attributed to obscure heart trouble, but for several months she had not had any “spells,” as she called them, and Fair hoped she would get well of her disease, whatever it was; but, alas! the terrible shock she had received had precipitated another attack, and it was far into the night before she recovered sufficiently to lie down upon her pillow and fall into a troubled, restless slumber, while Fair, in a chair beside the bed, smoothed the damp white brow with soft, mesmeric fingers, and repressed her bursting sobs lest she should startle the unquiet sleeper. “Poor darling, her heart is broken by her bitter disappointment, and I fear she will scarcely have courage to face life again,” she sighed, as the brief summer night waxed and waned, and she crouched there, a forlorn little white figure, in the forgotten bridal dress, watching that pale, pinched face upon the pillow with a supreme love and tenderness that took no thought of the poor sufferer’s weakness, and sometimes selfishness, but only dwelt on her sorrows and her warm motherly love for her only child. At length the gray dawn began to steal into the room, and Fair extinguished the little night lamp, and, removing the crumpled white lawn dress, replaced it with the plain, neatly made brown calico she usually wore to work. Stepping lightly about, she made preparations for their breakfast, and set the tea to draw, thinking that her mother would like a cup of her favorite beverage as soon as she awoke. By the bright morning light that now came into the room through the small back window, she saw that her mother’s face looked more natural in its color, and as the crowded house began to fill with the sounds of busy workers starting out for their daily labors, she awoke and looked about her with a puzzled air. “Fair!” she exclaimed, and the girl answered, in a cheerful tone: “You have overslept yourself, mother.” “Is that it? I feel very weak, dear. I do not want to rise just yet.” “That is all right, darling. Lie still, and I will give you a cup of warm tea and a slice of toast. Then you may go to sleep again if you wish.” She was glad to see that her mother seemed to relish the repast. She finished it and lay down upon her pillow; then Fair asked anxiously: “Do you feel well enough for me to leave you and go to work?” She knew, poor girl, that her purse was utterly empty. The last of her wages had been expended in the purchase of the fatal wedding dress. “Yes, darling, you may go. Heaven bless you, my good, patient child,” she added, just as a loud, startling rap sounded on the door. CHAPTER X. A SUDDEN BEREAVEMENT.