As the old face grew more and more haggard, and the old hands more and more skinny and claw-like, and the traces of intellect and thought more and more faded away from the features, the horror deepened, until Mercy feared that her own brain must be giving way.

She revolted from the very thought of herself for having such a feeling towards her mother.

Every instinct of loyalty in her deeply loyal nature rose up indignantly against her.

She would reiterate to herself the word, "Mother! mother! mother!" as she sat gazing with a species of horror-stricken fascination into the meaningless face.

But she could not shake off the feeling.