'Do be quiet,' said Henley, impatiently. 'Is not some one calling?'
Some one was calling: lights were appearing and disappearing; the drawing-room window was wide open, and their aunt stood on the terrace making signs, and looking out for them.
'Look, there goes a falling star,' said George.
'Ah! who is that under the tree?' cried Dolly again, with a little shriek. 'I knew I had seen some one move;' and as she spoke, a figure emerging from the gloom came nearer and nearer to them, almost running with two extended arms; a figure in long flowing garments, silver in the moonlight, a woman advancing quicker and quicker.
'Children, children!' said a voice. 'It is I,—George—your mother! Don't you know me—darlings? I have come. I was looking for you. Yes, it is I, your mother, children.'
Dolly's heart stood still, and then began to throb, as the lady flung her arms round Robert, who happened to be standing nearest.
'Is this George? I should have known him anywhere,' she cried.
Was this their mother? this beautiful, sweet, unseen woman, this pathetic voice?
Dolly had seized George's hand in her agitation, and was crunching it in hers. Robert had managed to extricate himself from the poor lady's agitated clutch.
'Here is George. I am Robert Henley,' he said. 'But, my dear aunt, why—why did you not write? I should have met you. I——'