“Then it was not your—your mother?”
Instantly that face half buried in clouds came before me.
“She—my mother never speaks,” I said, “she looks at me through the clouds, but does not say a word.”
He stopped, gazed at me wistfully a moment, and then bending his head closer to mine, whispered, “Tell me, tell old Turner, where is she?”
“She—who?” I whispered back.
“Your mother, Aurora—your mother, child.”
“I don’t know, she was here just now.”
“Here!” he said, looking around, “here?”
“Did you not see her face among the clouds, close down here, a minute ago? I did.”
He felt my cheek with his palm, took hold of my hands and feet—“She has no fever,” he muttered, “what does all this mean?”