"I wish you to read it," she said.
It was unsealed. He opened it at once, and read:
"MR. WALRAVEN,--Miriam is dead--Miriam Dane--my mother. She deceived you
from first to last. I am no daughter of yours--for which I humbly thank
God!--no daughter of Mary Dane. I am Miriam's child; yours died in the
work-house in its babyhood. I know my own story--I know your hand is red
with my father's blood. I don't forgive you, Mr. Walraven, but neither do
I accuse you. I simply never will see you again. Mr. Ingelow will hand
you this. He and I alone know the story. MARY DANE."
Mr. Ingelow looked up.
"Will it do?" she asked.
"Yes. Am I to deliver it?"
"If you will add that kindness to your others. I don't think he will
seek me out. He knows better than that."
Her head dropped against the side of the carriage. The face usually so
sparkling looked very, very pale, and worn, and sad. The young artist
took her hand and held it a moment at parting.
"You intend to write to your old manager to-morrow, Mollie?"
"Yes."
"Don't do it. Postpone it another day.
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