She faced round upon me, breathing quickly, and put one hand to her bosom in a startled manner that was quite foreign to her. “Renny,” she whispered, with a fading smile on her white face--pitiful heaven, how white and worn it had become! And burst into tears the next moment. Shocked beyond measure at her appearance, her woeful reception of me, I stepped back all amazed. She mistook my action and held out an imploring arm to me. The little weird girl at her side half buried herself in her mother’s skirts and peered up at me with deep eyes set in a tangle of hair. “Renny!” cried Zyp; “oh, you won’t throw me off? You won’t refuse to hear me?” “Come away,” I said, hoarsely; “to some quiet road, where we can talk undisturbed. You are not too tired?” “Too--oh, I’m wearied to death. Why not the mill? Renny, why not the mill?” “Zyp, not now--not at present. I’ll tell you by and by. See, I’ll take the little girl on one arm and you can cling to the other.” She pushed the child forward with a forlorn sigh. It whimpered a little as I lifted it, but I held it snug against my shoulder, and its soft breath on my cheeks seemed to melt the hard core of agony in my brain. Soon I had them in a quiet spot and seated upon a fallen log. There, holding the child against me, I looked in the eyes of the mother and could have wept. “Zyp, Zyp! What is it?” A boisterous clap of wind tumbled her dark hair as I spoke. What was it? Her lustrous head was strewed with ashy threads, as if the clipping fate had trimmed some broken skein of life over it; her eyes were like fathomless pools shrunk with drought; an impenetrable sorrow was figured in her wasted face. This was the shadow of Zyp--not the sweet substance--and moving among ghosts and shadows my own life seemed stumbling toward the grave. CHAPTER LVII. A PROMISE. Clasping thin, nervous fingers, Zyp looked up in my face fearfully. “Have you seen Jason?” “No. Has he come, too?” “He’s gone on before to the mill to seek you.” “God help him! I’ve been out all day. Is it the old trouble, Zyp?” “Oh, Renny, I despair at last! I fought it while I was strong; but now--now.” Her head sunk and she pressed a hand to her bosom again. “What ails you, dear? Zyp, are you ill?” “I don’t know. Something seems to suck at my veins. I have nothing definite. The wretchedness of life is sapping my strength, I suppose.” “Is it still so wretched? I am always here to give you what help I can.” “Oh, I know! And we must always be cursing your quiet with our entreaties.” “Zyp, you needn’t talk like that. My heart is open to my little sister. And is this my bonny niece?” She was a slender mite of four or thereabouts, with a delicate thin face, oval like a blushing rose petal, and a quaint, solemn manner of movement and broken speech. “Give me a kiss, mouse. Oh, what a prim little peck!” A faint smile came to the mother’s lips. “You’ll learn to love your uncle, Renna.” “Did you name her after me?”