here
my mother lived, and if any of her relations are still alive;" and
bending over the bed, she said in a low tone, "Who was Hilda, and where
did she live? Perhaps she was my mother, but she is dead."

The old woman muttered to herself, but looked up no more, "Dead, dead;
yes, every one I loved is dead. But not Miss Hilda; you are she, and you
have come to see your old nurse. But listen, Miss Hilda: there is the
master calling on us to go in, and you know we must not keep the master
waiting for even a minute;" and then the old woman spoke only of things
and people of whom no one in the room knew anything. But through all
Frida distinctly heard the words, "Oh, if only you had never played on
that instrument, then he would never have come to the house. O Miss
Hilda, why did you go away and break the heart of your mother, and old
nurse's also? Oh, woe's the day! oh, woe's the day!"

"Was his name Heinz?" asked Frida in a trembling voice.

"Oh yes, Heinz, Heinz. O Miss Hilda, Miss Hilda, why did you do it?" and
then the old woman burst out crying bitterly.

"O miss, can you sing?" said Maggie, coming forward; "for nothing quiets
grandmother like singing."

"Yes, I can," replied Frida.--"And you, I am sure, Ada, will help me. I
know now the woman, whoever she is, knows all about my mother."

Together the two young girls sang the hymn, "Jesus, Lover of my soul."

As they sang the dying woman became quieter, her muttering ceased, and
presently she fell into a quiet sleep; the last words she uttered before
doing so were, "Jesus, Lover of my soul." Much moved in spirit, Frida
quitted the house; she felt as if now she stood on the verge of
discovering the name and relations of her mother. She and Ada hastened
their return home to confide to Lady Stanford all that had passed. She
was much interested, and, as Sir Richard entered the room just then, she
repeated the story to him. He listened eagerly, and said he would at
once find out all he could about the woman and her friends; and so
saying he left the house.

He returned home cast down and discouraged. The woman had become quite
delirious, and the names of Hilda and Heinz were often on her lips, but
he could, of course, get nothing out of her. The grandchild could tell
nothing of her former life; she never remembered hearing where she had
been nurse, but her father, who was now in Canada, might know. Sir
Richard could write and ask him. She had his address, and sometim