"No; because her own generous nature assures us that the evil will die of itself before morning. This is not enough to account for the fact that you quiver as if with cold, and the very touch of your forehead chills me."
"Do I?" questioned Rachael. "I did not know it. My cloak has fallen off—that is all."
"Mamma Rachael!"
They both started, for leaning over the banisters was the sweet, tearful face of Lady Clara.
"My own darling!" cried Rachael, lifting her arms.
Down the staircase sprang that generous young creature, her feet scarcely touching the polished oak, her hair all unbound and rolling in waves down her back. Struck with sweet compunctions, she had broken from the hands of her maid, and left her with the blue ribbon fluttering in her hand, while she ran back to make peace with the woman who was almost dearer to her than a mother.
She fell upon her knees by Rachael, and shook the hair from her face, which was glowing with sweet penitence.
"Kiss me, mamma Rachael, not on this saucy mouth of mine, but here upon my forehead. I cannot sleep till you have kissed me good night."
Rachael laid one hand on that bright young head, but it was quivering like a shot bird. She bent the face back a little, and pored over the features with yearning scrutiny, as if she longed to engrave every line on her heart.
Something in those black eyes disturbed the girl afresh. She reached up her arms, and cried out: