mother for the worst. The girl, he knew, would probably confess all
during her convalescence, and the mother must be prepared, so that the
first burst of anguish would have expended itself before the girl
should have a chance to pour out the story of her misfortune.

"Tell me, doctor, is she going to die?" the mother asked, as she closed
the door of the little sitting-room and they were alone. The poor lady
had not thought of her own misfortunes since Anna's illness. The
selfishness of the woman of the world was completely obliterated by the
anxiety of the mother.

"No, she will not die, Mrs. Moore; that is, if you are able to control
your feelings sufficiently, after I have made a most distressing
disclosure, to give her the love and sympathy that only you can."

She looked at him with troubled eyes. "Why, doctor, what do you mean?
My daughter has always had my love and sympathy, and if of late I have
appeared somewhat engrossed by my own troubles, I assure you my
daughter is not likely to suffer from it during her illness."

"Her life depends on how you receive what I am going to tell you.
Should you upbraid her with her misfortune, or fail to stand by her as
only a mother can, I shall not answer for the consequences." Then he
told her Anna's secret.

The stricken woman did not cry out in her anguish, nor swoon away. She
raised a feebly protesting hand, as if to ward off a cruel blow; then
burying her face in her arms, she cowed before him. Not a sob shook
the frail, wasted figure. It was as if this most terrible misfortune
had dried up the well-springs of grief and robbed her of the blessed