plan of life which she had arranged for the future, and to earn her bread as a teacher of singing.  To all appearance she rallied, and became herself again, in a few months’ time.  She was making her way; she was winning sympathy, confidence, and respect every where—­when she sank suddenly 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?”

She solemnly repeated the words, “I am afraid for my child.”

“Why?”

“My Anne is my second self—­isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“She is as fond of your child as I was of you?”

“Yes.”

“She is not called by her father’s name—­she is called by mine.  She is Anne Silvester as I was.  Blanche! Will she end like Me?”

The question was put with the laboring breath, with the heavy accents which tell that death is near.  It chilled the living woman who heard it to the marrow of her bones.

“Don’t think that!” she cried, horror-struck.  “For God’s sake, don’t think that!”

The wildness began to appear again in Anne Silvester’s eyes.  She made feebly impatient signs with her hands.  Lady Lundie bent over her, and heard her whisper, “Lift me up.”

She lay in her friend’s arms; she looked up in her friend’s face; she went back wildly to her fear for her child.

“Don’t bring her up like Me!  She must be a governess—­she must get her bread.  Don’t let her act! don’t let her sing! don’t let her go on the stage!” She stopped—­her voice suddenly recovered its sweetness of tone—­she smiled faintly—­she said the old girlish words once more, in the old girlish way, “Vow it, Blanche!” Lady Lundie kissed her, and answered, as she had answered when they parted in the ship, “I vow it, Anne!”