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“Good Heavens, Augusta, what is the matter? Are you faint?” asked the mother.

Augusta shook her head, and rang the bell, while she gave Mrs. Emly the paragraph to read.”Daniel,” she said to the servant who answered the bell, “Go to Dr. Edmunds, and ask him to come to me immediately. Stop, Daniel—ask Gray as you go along to send me a carriage directly.”

“What now, Miss Emly? Are you going to the Tombs?

“Yes.”

“Not with my permission.”

“Without it then, ma’am, unless you bolt the doors upon me. The doctor will go with me. There is no impropriety, and no Quixotism in my going, and I shall never be happy again if I do not go. Oh, my dear mother,” continued she, bursting into tears, “I have suffered agonies this night thinking of that poor young woman; but they are nothing—nothing to the misery of hearing you last night defend that bad man, and bring me reason upon reason why ‘it was to be expected,’ and ‘what often happened,’ and ‘what no one thought of condemning a man for.’ That he, loaded with God’s good gifts, should make a prey and victim of a trusting, loving, defenceless woman; and she should be cast out of the pale of humanity—turned from our doors—driven forth to perish in the storm. Oh, it is monstrous!—monstrous!”

Augusta was too strong for her mother. She made no further opposition, but merely murmured, in a voice that did not reach her daughter’s ear, “There does seem to be inconsistency, but it appears different when one knows the world!”

The door of Fanny McDermot’s cell was opened by the turnkey, and Miss Emly and the physician were admitted. It was a room twice the size of those allotted to single occupants, and there were already two women of the most hardened character in it, besides a young girl, not sixteen, committed for infanticide. She, her eyes filled with tears, was bathing Fanny’s head with cold water, while the women, looking like two furies, were accusing one another of having stolen from Fanny, the one a handkerchief, the other a ring.

Fanny’s dead infant was on her arm, while she, half raised on her elbow, bent over it. She had wrapped her cloak and the only blanket on the bed around it.”She is so cold,” she said; “I have tried all night to warm her. She grows colder and colder.”

“Cannot this young woman be moved to a more decent apartment?” asked Miss Emly of the turnkey.

Fanny looked up at the sound of her voice.”Oh, you have come—I thought you would,” she said.”You will warm my baby, won’t you.”

“Yes, indeed I will. Let me take her.”

“Take her away? No—I can’t—I shall never see her again! They tried to pull her away from me, but they could not—we grew together! Bring me a little warm milk for her. She has not sucked since yesterday morning, and then my milk was so hot, I think it scalded her—I am sure it did not agree with her.”

“Oh, pray,” said Augusta, to the turnkey, who had replied to her inquiry, “that the next room was just vacated, and could be made quite comfortable, “pray procure a bed and blankets, and whatever will be of any use to her. I will pay you for all your expense and trouble.”

“Nothing can be of use,” said the physician,” whose fingers were on Fanny’s pulse; “her heart is fluttering with its last beats.”

“Thank God!” murmured Augusta.

“Put your hand on her head. Did you ever feel such heat?”

“Oh dear, dear! it was that dreadful heat she spoke of in all her mental misery last night.”

A quick step was heard along the passage; a sobbing voice addressed the turnkey, and in rushed Mrs. O’Roorke. She did not, as her people commonly do at the sight of a dying creature, set up a howl, but she sunk on her knees, and pressed her hand to her lips as if to hold in the words that were leaping from her heart.

Fanny looked at her for a moment in silence, then, with a faint smile on her quivering lips, she stretched her hand to her.”You have found me. I could not find you. I walked—and walked.” She closed her eyes and sunk back on her pillow; her face became calmer, and when she again opened her eyes it was more quiet.”Mrs. O’Roorke,” she said, quite distinctly, directing her eyes to Augusta, “this lady believed me—tell her about me.”

“Oh, I will—I will—I will.”

“Hush—not now. Come here,—my baby is dead. I—God is good. I forgive—God is love. My baby—yes—God—is—good.”

In that unfailing goodness the mother and the child repose for ever.