On entering the dining-room, Mr. and Mrs. Cameron found a most tempting luncheon prepared for them, but no one in the room, Lyle having judged they would prefer to be by themselves for awhile.
As Mrs. Cameron, having partaken of some slight refreshment, was preparing to return to the sick-room, her husband said:
“Wait a moment, my dear; there is another joy in store for you, Marjorie, in that, through Everard’s coming out into this country, we have received back from the dead, as it were, not only our son, but also a daughter. I want you to meet her now, my dear, so prepare yourself for a great surprise, and perhaps, something of a shock.”
“I do not understand you, dear,” replied Mrs. Cameron, looking bewildered, “you certainly do not refer to Leslie, I have met her.”
“No, my love, Leslie is a beautiful girl, and will be to us a lovely daughter, but I refer to a daughter of our own flesh and blood.”
Stepping to an adjoining room, Mr. Cameron called in a low tone, “Lyle, my dear,” returning immediately to his wife’s side to support her in case the shock should prove too much in her present agitated condition.
Lyle glided into the room, slowly approaching Mrs. Cameron, who sat speechless, pale as death, but controlling herself by a visible effort.
“Edna, my child! my own Edna!” she cried, rising with outstretched arms, and clasping Lyle to her breast; then turning toward her husband, she asked:
“What does this mean, Walter? Can this be Edna’s child?”
“Yes, my love,” he replied, “this is the little Marjorie we have mourned as dead for so many years.”