The clock struck the quarter past.
The sound aroused her.
"My mother," she said--"let me think I go to meet my mother.

Sinful, degraded, an outcast, but still my mother.

Let me think of that, and be brave." She opened her door; the stillness of death reigned.

She glided down the corridor, down the sweeping stair-way, the soft carpeting muffling every tread--the dim night-lamps lighting her on her way.
No human sound startled her.

All in the house were peacefully asleep--all save that flying figure, and one other wicked watcher.