“Ellen, think again, for my mother’s sake; she loves you already as a daughter. Look, she is coming back.”
“For her sake. What is she to Ellen Worthington—the half-breed—the Indian?”
She had advanced to the door, and stood with one hand on the latch, revealed in all the bitterness of her true nature. She turned, and stood face to face with the woman she had insulted. The deathly white of that face struck her insolence dumb. She shrunk away and crept from the house, baffled and in fierce anger with herself.
Mrs. La Clide stood near the threshold, waving to and fro, but without the power to move.
Claude sprung forward.
“Mother, dear mother!”
It was the wail of a strong heart in agony—the plaintive cry of a soul suddenly stricken in its love.
She fell across the threshold, before his outstretched arms could reach her. He lifted her up, and laid her head upon his bosom, calling out:
“Mother! mother! mother!”
She made no answer; her eyes were closed, a tinge of blue crept around her mouth. During all that scene, her heart had been laboring with fearful struggles. When the last insulting speech fell on her ear, piercing the hidden pain of her life, the poor heart gave one wild leap, and carrying death with it.