Miss Welwyn went upstairs to her sister.
How the fearful news was first broken to Rosamond, I cannot
relate to you. Miss Welwyn has never confided to me, has never
confided to anybody, what happened at the interview between her
sister and herself that night. I can tell you nothing of the
shock they both suffered, except that the younger and the weaker
died under it; that the elder and the stronger has never
recovered from it, and never will.
They went away the same night, with one attendant, to
Harleybrook, as the agent had advised. Before daybreak Rosamond
was seized with the pains of premature labor. She died three days
after, unconscious of the horror of her situation, wandering in
her mind about past times, and singing old tunes that Ida had
taught her as she lay in her sister's arms.
The child was born alive, and lives still. You saw her at the
window as we came in at the back way to the Grange. I surprised
you, I dare say, by asking you not to speak of her to Miss
Welwyn. Perhaps you noticed something vacant in the little girl's
expression. I am sorry to say that her mind is more vacant still.
If "idiot" did not sound like a mocking word, however tenderly
and pityingly one may wish to utter it, I should tell you that
the poor thing had been an idiot from her birth.
You will, doubtless, want to hear now what happened at Glenwith
Grange after Miss Welwyn and her sister had left it.
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