Katharine shrunk from the glance.
"Oh, mother, don't look at me so—it makes me tremble!"
Mrs. Allen dropped the quilt, and, ignoring the fears of her child, answered to the first question.
"You are getting excited, but I think not feverish."
"Mother."
"Well, Katharine."
"I want—I wish—"
The poor thing made an effort to pull down the bed-clothes, but her hand trembled so violently that she could only make a faint signal before it fell.
The mother was touched. What woman, however aggrieved, would have resisted those mournful eyes? She went close to the bed, and turned down the blanket. A babe lay sleeping on that young creature's bosom, its little hand resting like a rose leaf, on her neck. A cloud of soft, golden hair covered its head. Mrs. Allen turned her face away, but the magnetism of those blue eyes drew it softly toward the child.
"You are its grandmother—and oh, tell me if I am your child yet?"