This was far more bewildering to Arthur than her former state, for there was a wild, appealing look about her eyes which made him fear for her reason; but with the emergency came a certain power. It was truly a transformation. The boy was changed into a man. He stood up and taking both of Margaret's hands into his own, looked steadfastly into her eyes.
"Mrs. Grey," he said slowly and distinctly, "try and remember what has brought you here. Your child, little Laura!"
She put her hand to her head: "Laura! Laura! Do you know where she is, poor child? The heat has tired her; she must be lying down."
Arthur trembled, but he kept his eyes still fixed on those of his companion, which wandered hither and thither like restless stars.
"Mrs. Grey," he said again, "do you wish to find your child?"
Her eyes had begun to feel the power of his; they were falling under the spell of his steadfast gaze. Now was Arthur's time of trial, for the unmeaning wildness grew gradually into surprised displeasure. "Dear lady!" he said pleadingly, but not for a moment removing his gaze, "you have been patient; be so still. Do not let your sorrow overcome you utterly."
There spread a faint color over the dead whiteness of her face. The young man saw that for this time the danger had gone by. He had the tact to release her suddenly and to turn away for a walk along the shore. His true, unselfish love had given him eyes to see and a heart to understand. He knew that the return to a sense of her position would be painful to Margaret for more reasons than one. He left her to recover herself alone. Presently she called him. He went to her, and took his place by her side as if nothing had happened to disturb their conversation.
"Thank you," she said, gently raising her dark, troubled eyes to his face, "I understand you—you are my true friend;" and then a few tears that she could not keep back flowed over her pale cheeks. "Oh," she said, slowly and painfully, "if God will I shall learn; but, young man, it is a dreary time for learning. In our days of happiness and youth we put all this away, and the hour of trouble finds us without a refuge. You see I bore all the trouble," she continued, smiling faintly; "it is the glimmer of hope you have brought me that so nearly upset my poor, weak brain. But tell me, have you seen my little one?"
In reply Arthur gave, as clearly as possible, the story given to him by the waiter at the hotel in York, to all of which Margaret listened with rapt attention. Once or twice she was on the point of interrupting him, but she controlled herself to the end, and there was disappointment in the heavy sigh with which she answered him. "It is certainly my scarf," she said, taking it up and examining it attentively; "I could not possibly be mistaken, and as certainly that little child was my daughter—my lost Laura. Yes, it is all so probable. My little one's grief, the love of those around her, and her letter—it was to me—he never sent it. I am deceived, betrayed. Oh, Maurice! Maurice!"