'Heard from her? Then she writes to you! Oh, blessed, blessed woman! show me her letters, and tell me only that she has forgiven me for all my unkindness to her—' As she said this, Mrs Mowbray threw her arms round Mrs Pemberton, and sunk half-fainting on her shoulder.
'I will tell thee all that has ever passed between us, if thou wilt be composed,' gravely answered Mrs Pemberton; 'but this violent expression of thy feelings is unseemly and detrimental.'
'Well—well—I will be calm,' said Mrs Mowbray; and Mrs Pemberton began to relate the interview which she had with Adeline at Richmond.
'How long ago did this take place?' eagerly interrupted Mrs Mowbray.
'Full six years.'
'Oh, God!' exclaimed she, impatiently,—'Six years! By this time then she may be dead—she may—'
'Thou art incorrigible, I fear,' said Mrs Pemberton, 'but thou art afflicted, and I will bear with thy impatience:—sit down again and attend to me, and thou wilt hear much later intelligence of thy daughter.'
'How late?' asked Mrs Mowbray with frantic eagerness;—and Mrs Pemberton, overcome with the manner in which she spoke, could scarcely falter out, 'Within a twelvemonth I have heard of her.'
'Within a twelvemonth!' joyfully cried Mrs Mowbray: but, recollecting herself, she added mournfully—'but in that time what—what may not have happened!'
'I know not what to do with thee nor for thee,' observed Mrs Pemberton; 'but do try, I beseech thee, to hear me patiently!'