“Mama!” said Florence, hurriedly advancing. “Dear Mama! what is the matter?”
“I have not been well,” said Edith, shaking, and still looking at her in the same strange way. “I have had bad dreams, my love.”
“And not yet been to bed, Mama?”
“No,” she returned. “Half-waking dreams.”
Her features gradually softened; and suffering Florence to come closer to her, within her embrace, she said in a tender manner, “But what does my bird do here? What does my bird do here?”
“I have been uneasy, Mama, in not seeing you tonight, and in not knowing how Papa was; and I—”
Florence stopped there, and said no more.
“Is it late?” asked Edith, fondly putting back the curls that mingled with her own dark hair, and strayed upon her face.
“Very late. Near day.”
“Near day!” she repeated in surprise.