Heloise, thus hearing of the physicians' pronouncement for the first time, had given way to a torrent of tears; but, upon becoming calm under her mistress's cheerful words, she had replied that it would be an everlasting pity if Louise were not sent for in any case.
"I am not so sure about that," Mrs. Treharne had replied. "I recall very easily how I myself, when I was of Louise's age, recoiled from the thought of death—though I do not at all now, oddly enough. I should have hated to be at the bedside of my mother when she died—I was only a child in arms and did not know anything about it. Louise, I think, must feel the same way. Why should she not? She is my daughter. Would it not be quite as well for her to return to this country and find me gone, as it would be to send for her now and subject her to the distress of seeing me pass? I am not considering myself, Heloise. Every minute I am longing to see her. But I want to be fair now, at least, and do what is best."
Heloise had found no difficulty at all in withstanding this sort of reasoning.
"If madame does not send for her daughter," Heloise had replied, "I myself shall do so, in my own name."
"Very well," Mrs. Treharne had replied, "I shall cable her at once, and God speed her over the sea to me!"
On the second morning—sunny and beautiful—after Mrs. Treharne had received Louise's wireless message, she and Heloise heard the grinding of carriage wheels on the short gravel road leading to the cottage porch. The doctor already had paid his visit and departed, so they knew that the sound was not that of his buggy. Heloise raced on tiptoes to the window and looked down. Then she turned a delighted face upon her mistress, whose hair she had been arranging with unusual care in expectation of Louise.
"It is mademoiselle!" cried the maid.
There was a sound of hurried tripping up the stairs; and Louise, flushed from the drive, regally beautiful, swept softly into the room and, kneeling by the bed, took her mother in her arms and held her tight, rocking back and forth on the pillows, and restraining her tears by sheer effort of will. Laura found an excuse to remain on the porch for a moment, giving directions to the driver of the carriage, while mother and daughter met.
Louise had schooled herself to withstand the shock of finding her mother looking badly. But her first glance at the white-faced invalid had caused her heart to beat with agonized trepidation. It would have been obvious to an uninterested stranger that Mrs. Treharne was fast approaching the end of her days. Louise perceived it at a glance. But she would not yield to her almost overwhelming woman's impulse to weep. Her mother's penetrating mind quickly sensed the girl's struggle and the victory; and she raised Louise's head from where it nestled on her shoulder and held her face in her hands and looked at her with a smile.