"You called me son," said Norman, gazing on her with a sad smile.
"Did I? That sprung from the word mother. I would gladly hear it from those lips again. Norman, I once had a child—a sweet babe, which was taken from me long before it could pronounce the word mother, and no one, even by accident, ever called me by that dear name till now."
"Mother! mother!" repeated the young man, pausing on each word, as if to drink in its hidden music. "It is very strange, but ever since I first saw you that word has been constantly whispered in my heart. I never thought of it before, save as a sound full of regrets. To me, an orphan from the first, it had no other meaning."
"But now—now you love it?"
"Yes; now it has depth and significance. A tender significance, which makes my heart swell, and fills my eyes with tears. Lady, I am glad the word escaped me, since it does not wound or offend you, for it has unlocked my heart. I could rest your head on my bosom thus, and weep my life away with yours."
"Oh!" exclaimed Barbara, "if God would be merciful, and let us die so."
"Or permit you to live. How beautiful existence would be for us all!"
Instantly, the holy tenderness that had trembled on Barbara's features went out from her face. Her head rested like marble on the young man's shoulders. The thought of what must happen to-morrow broke through her exaltation, and froze her into ice.
"Go," she said, in a husky whisper. "Go! your wife is waiting. Take her out of this place—from the town itself. You must not be near me when the time comes. I shall be better alone."
"Not near you!" exclaimed the young man. "Though my heart break—and I feel that it must—you shall not drive me from your side."