They had been silent a long time; one watching the fishers, the other looking far beyond them into the still night.
“Mother!”
Catherine Montour started, and withdrawing her eyes from the lake, looked with a kindly glance into the earnest face lifted to hers.
“Well, my child?”
“Is it possible—oh, tell me, mother—mightn’t he come to-night?”
“My poor child!”
“Why do you call me poor child, mother, and with that voice, too? Is it because you fear that he will not come?”
“Not that, Tahmeroo. I dare say he will be here before long; for your sake, I hope so.”
“And only for my sake, mother; is there no love in your heart for my husband?”
“I love you, child,” said Catharine, with a tender caress.