CHAPTER XXXIV.

Notwithstanding the extreme cordiality of her reception by Andrew Pryor, Leonie felt, naturally, some misgivings regarding the welcome she would receive from the feminine portion of the household.

She was, however, prepared for anything, and it was with a most thankful heart that she heard the exclamations of delight that were unanimous when she was seen at the door of the drawing-room in company with Mr. Pryor.

Doffing the ragged cap that covered her head, she smilingly received the welcome of Mrs. Pryor, followed by that of the young ladies, and grasped the hand of Miss Pyne with suspicious warmth as it was extended last.

"I don't know what we should do with you for giving us the fright that you have!" cried Mrs. Pryor, warmly. "I honestly think that Mr. Pryor has not slept a night since you left us so unceremoniously."

Leonie colored vividly, and even Mr. Pryor looked a trifle sheepish.

"Before you make any more such remarks as that, my dear," he exclaimed, laughingly, "you had better let me tell you the romance that clings to my private secretary! He is not a man at all, but a young woman who happens to be the first cousin of our little friend here, Miss Edith Pyne!"

If he intended to create a sensation, as of course he did, his object was achieved to its fullest extent.

There was not a word spoken in the room for many moments, Mrs. Pryor being the first to break the silence.

"But I don't understand it at all!" she cried. "Is not this Neil Lowell?"

Leonie stepped forward, her brow colored crimson.

"I don't think that I should have had the courage to face you after my deception, dear Mrs. Pryor," she said, timidly, "but for the cordiality of your husband. If you will allow me, when I have more time than now, I will explain to you the reason for my assuming male attire and passing myself off upon your kindness in a false light. I hope you will forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive, absolutely nothing! And you are really the cousin of Edith Pyne?"

"You read that remarkable story in the papers this morning, did you not?" cut in Mr. Pryor. "Well, this is the child of that marriage. You may be sure the papers will contain many sensational points to-morrow that they failed to get to-day, and New York will be more surprised than it has been for many days."

"I don't know what your name is, Neil Lowell," exclaimed Edith, with a merry laugh, "but I am very much pleased that you are my cousin, and before you take off your boy's clothes, I should like to kiss you!"

There was general merriment, of course, but Mrs. Pryor's next question put an end to it.

"And Miss Chandler," she said, "what had she to do with it?"

There was silence for a moment, then Andrew Pryor answered:

"This young lady is in haste to pay a call. While she goes to change her dress I will tell you all that! Gwen, or the one of you that is nearest your size, will furnish you with clothes, my dear, until your wardrobe can be changed. Run away now, and be back as quickly as you can."

Understanding the kindness of the intention, Leonie gave him a glance of gratitude, and followed the girls from the room.

Laughing, chatting, asking a hundred questions in as many seconds, they went on their way as though they had been friends for life, and it was with a heart filled with the sincerest of gratitude, that Leonie realized that she had found friends at last, friends who would never fail her in her bitter struggle with loneliness and isolation.

They soon found a gown that would fit, and not long afterward she announced to them that she must make her call at the hospital.

The carriage was ordered to the door, and she was driven away with as much ceremony and respect as though she were a member of the family, where she was in reality but a dependent.

But as she rode onward her thoughts fled from her own good fortune to that unhappy woman who had done so much to aid her in securing that which was more to her than her life, and a great sadness took possession of her.

How good God was to her, giving her name and friends when she had lost all hope, yet how far He seemed from that poor creature lying there knowing that she must die, and that the child whom she had so much loved had preceded her.

The beautiful eyes filled with tears as the carriage stopped.

She explained to the person in charge of the building who she was, and was admitted to the ward in which poor Liz lay upon one of the little, white-draped cots.

Very quietly Leonie approached her, and, kneeling beside the bed, kissed her upon the forehead.

"Don't you know me, Liz?" she asked gently.

The woman smiled feebly, making an effort to extend her hand.

"I did not until you spoke!" she answered weakly; "but nothing could ever cause me to forget that voice. You are Leonie; but how changed you are."

"Borrowed plumes make changes in us all! They have told you of the terrible things that happened last night, have they not, dear?"

"Yes; they came to take my statement--_ante-mortem_, I think they call it!"

"Oh, Liz! I hope it may not be true! Do not you know, dear, how we had planned to go away and live together? If you will only get well, Liz, we can do that now."

The smile upon the poor tired face deepened.

"That was before Dick died," she replied, with as much cheerfulness as a rapidly dying woman can express.

"But you would need me all the more now!"

"No. I shall never trouble any one again. God has been very good to me, after all, Leonie. He knew that I could never live without Dick, and he placed a means in my power without making me responsible for it. They tell me that I sprung out that window, but I have no remembrance of it, and I know that He will not hold me guilty. My boy is waiting for me, Leonie, just across the river, and when I close my eyes I can see him as distinctly as I can you, only that he is robbed of his deformity and his rags. It does not seem like little Dick, and yet I know that it is he. The Lord has sent him to help his mother safely over. I have not lived a guiltless life, Leonie, but for Dick's sake the Lord will forgive."

"And you are not afraid, Liz?" whispered Leonie, the awe of her tone making it extremely low.

"Afraid of my God?" returned the woman wonderingly. "Afraid of Heaven when I have known such torture here upon earth? Oh, no! I have been praying to God to have mercy upon Ben and send him repentance. That is my one torture now that I am dying. I have not forgotten you, dear, and I never shall; but here, just at the last, when I remember all the wickedness of his life, I do not see how God ever could forgive him!"

"And yet you can!"

"Upon that I found my hope. Oh, Leonie, it seems so sweet to know that it is all over and done with at last. All the old heartaches, the terror, the fear lest Ben should kill my poor, helpless baby. No one but God could ever know what a hideous nightmare it was, but it will be over now in a few hours at most. I hope you may be happy, my dear girl, and that we may meet in that heaven that is promised to us all."

"I almost wish that I could go with you," whispered Leonie, choking back her sobs. "There is so little of happiness here, and so much promised there. I know that I am ungrateful to Heaven for all the kind friends that have been sent me, but my mother is up there, Liz, and sometimes the desire is so strong upon me to see her and Dad, to be with them again, that I can scarcely control it."

"I had forgotten them. I shall see them before you will, dear."

"Yes, and if you can deliver them a message for me, tell them that I ought to be happy, that I am ungrateful, but that the whole craving of my heart is to be with them and with God. Tell them that I have and shall do only what I believe they would advise and wish me to do. Oh, Liz, I wish that I might go with you!"

There was something curiously touching in that scene, so simple and yet so explicit in its faith. There was not the smallest doubt in the heart of either.

The dying woman reached up her arms and clasped them about the girlish neck.

"Not yet, dear," she whispered. "Life should hold many things that are precious to one so beautiful and so good as you. Heaven has not forgotten you. Only trust it all to God. But when the good days come, do not forget Him in your enjoyment. Remember that the hour that I am awaiting almost impatiently now must come to you at last."

Leonie was weeping softly. Her very heart seemed breaking.

She had never seemed so utterly alone since that night upon which her grandfather had left her to battle with life alone.

The friends she had left seemed to count as nothing in that hour.

She could scarcely control an hysterical sobbing, but for Liz's sake she knew she must.

She lay there with her head upon the dying woman's pillow, the feeble hands straying softly over the short hair from which the hat had fallen.

Suddenly the motion ceased.

There were a few whispered words that Leonie did not catch, then a hand was placed gently upon her shoulder.

She lifted her head and saw beside her an attendant--a sweet-faced, low-voiced woman.

"It is all over!" she whispered reverently.

With a horrified expression, Leonie gazed at the face upon the pillow.

A peaceful smile hovered upon it. The lips were open, and a dimple rested in the left cheek as it had been in girlhood.

"Liz!" Leonie whispered, "Liz!"

But there was no answer.

She slipped from beneath the hand that the attendant had laid upon her arm, and fell to the floor, her bright, beautiful head falling across Liz's bosom.

Most tenderly she was lifted and carried from the room.