at the opening of her new life. Nobody could account for it. The doctors
themselves were divided in opinion. Scientifically speaking, there was
no reason why she should die. It was a mere figure of speech--in no
degree satisfactory to any reasonable mind--to say, as Lady Lundie said,
that she had got her death-blow on the day when her husband deserted
her. The one thing certain was the fact--account for it as you might.
In spite of science (which meant little), in spite of her own courage
(which meant much), the woman dropped at her post and died.

In the latter part of her illness her mind gave way. The friend of her
old school-days, sitting at the bedside, heard her talking as if she
thought herself back again in the cabin of the ship. The poor soul found
the tone, almost the look, that had been lost for so many years--the
tone of the past time when the two girls had gone their different ways
in the world. She said, "we will meet, darling, with all the old love
between us," just as she had said almost a lifetime since. Before the
end her mind rallied. She surprised the doctor and the nurse by begging
them gently to leave the room. When they had gone she looked at Lady
Lundie, and woke, as it seemed, to consciousness from a dream.

"Blanche," she said, "you will take care of my child?"

"She shall be _my_ child, Anne, when you are gone."

The dying woman paused, and thought for a little. A sudden trembling
seized her.

"Keep it a secret!" she said. "I am afraid for my child."

"Afraid? After what I have promised you?"