“But I love him. He is mine. He never knew any mother but me,” pleaded the young woman, while the tears started in large drops from her eyes, and her hands clasped themselves as if eager to implore silence and mercy from the maniac.
“No,” answered Elsie, and her black eyes kindled with fiery light to their depths; “no, he is mine. When the blood reaches his heart, mine beats quicker; when it stops, I shall perish; he is my soul, lost years and years ago, which the night-angel has brought back. Go away, go away!”
The poor young woman looked around for some one to aid or comfort her. Catharine came forward.
“Yes,” she said, gently, “the night-angel knows that Elsie is the child’s mother; but he is so young and must be cared for. This is his nurse, who has taken charge of him for you. It is she who told the night-angel when he was ready to come back.”
“Oh! are you sure?” questioned Elsie. “She does not claim to be his mother?”
“No, only his mamma. You don’t mind what he calls her, if it is not mother.”
“You are sure, quite sure?”
“Quite sure. Wake him and see if he calls her anything but mamma.”
Elsie smiled. “Wake him, oh, yes, I know how!” She bent her pale lips down to the rosy mouth of the child, leaving a timid kiss upon it.
“It makes my heart beat,” she said, drawing a deep breath, and glancing furtively up at the portraits. “They are jealous. Yes, they know what it is to be jealous now.”