Oh, not dying!" "Dying, my daughter!" the sick woman said.

"I count my life by minutes now; I heard the city clocks strike eleven; I counted the strokes, for, my Sunbeam, it is the last hour thy mother will ever hear on earth." The ballet-dancer covered her face, with a low, despairing cry.

The dying mother, with a painful effort, lifted her own skeleton hand and removed those of the girl.
"Weep not, but listen, _carissima_.

I have much to say to thee before I go; I feared to die before you came; and even in my grave I could not rest with the words I must say unsaid.

I have a legacy to leave thee, my daughter." "A legacy ?" The girl opened her great black eyes in wide surprise.
"Even so.