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The O’Roorke’s were still tenants of a room below, and since the old woman’s illness, Fanny had often accepted the kind offers of their services. Ellen went on her errands, and Pat brought up her wood and water; and whenever she had occasion to go out (and such occasions recently came often, and lasted long), Mrs. O’Roorke would bring her baby, to tend in the “ould lady’s room.” Though Fanny, without any visible means of subsistence, was supplied with every comfort she could desire for her aunt or herself, Mrs. O’Roorke, from stupidity or humanity, or a marvellous want of curiosity, asked no questions.

On some points, she certainly was not blind. One day, Mrs. Hyat, after an ill turn, had fallen asleep, Mrs. O’Roorke was sitting by her, and Fanny appeared deeply engaged in reading. Ellen O’Roorke looked at the volume, and exclaimed, “Why, your book, Fanny, is bottom side up.” Fanny burst into tears, and flung it from her.

“God help the child!” said Mrs. O’Roorke; “take the baby down stairs,” she added to Ellen, “and stay by it till I come. Now Fanny, darlint, spake out—what frets you. The mother that bore you, is not more tinder to you than Biddy O’Roorke; and have I not seen your eyes this three months always unquiet-like, and red too, and your cheek getting paler and paler?” Fanny buried her face in the bed-clothes.”Ah, honey dear, don’t fret so; it’s not to vex you, I’m speaking; the words have been burning on my tongue this six weeks gone, but the old lady jealoused us; and though I am old enough to be your mother, or grandmother for that, you looked so sweet and innocent-like I was afeard to spake my thought.”

“I have no word to speak,” said Fanny, in a changed and faltering voice, and the bed trembled with the ague that shook her.

At this moment Mrs. Hyat threw her arm out of bed, opened her eyes, and for the first time in many days, looked about her intelligently, and spoke distinctly, “Fanny.”

Fanny sprang to her side, and Mrs. O’Roorke instinctively moved round to the head of the bed, where she could not be seen.

“Fanny,” continued the old woman, slowly, but with perfect distinctness, “I am going—you will follow soon—you will, dear. Be patient, be good.” The blood coloured again her faded and withered cheek as she spoke, and mounting to her brain, gave her a momentary vigour.”Trust in God, Fanny, trust in God, and not in man. I go—but I do not leave you alone, Fanny,—not alone,—no—no—not alone.” The utterance grew fainter and fainter, a slight convulsion passed over her whole frame, and her features were still and rigid. Fanny gazed in silent fear and horror. Her eye turned from her aunt to Mrs. O’Roorke, with that question she could not utter. The kind woman said nothing, but gently closed the staring, vacant eyes.

“Oh! she is dead!” cried Fanny, throwing herself on the bed in a paroxysm of grief.”My last friend; oh! I am alone—alone. God has left me—I have left him. I deceived her. Oh dear—oh dear!”

In vain Mrs. O’Roorke tried to calm and comfort her, she wept till she fell asleep from utter exhaustion. Nature did the kind work it does so well to elastic youth, and she awoke in the morning calm, strengthened, and refreshed. She seemed, as Mrs. O’Roorke said, changed from a helpless girl to a woman. She sent for her aunt’s clergyman, and by his intervention, and the aid of an undertaker, she made provision for burying her beside her husband and children; and attended by the clergyman, she followed her last and faithful old relative to the grave; and returned to her desolate apartment, a dreary world behind her, and fearful clouds hovering around her horizon—poor young creature!