"Is that little May?"
May's ivory cheeks were flushed with nervous excitement as, by an effort of brave will, she drew near to the mad mother's couch.
"Yes, it is little May," said Mrs. Raeburn, fondling her affectionately. "Poor little back. Poor little thing. What a dreadful misfortune. My fault, all my fault. I shouldn't have bothered about cleaning up so much, not being so far gone as I was. Poor little May. I'm very ill—my head is hurting dreadfully."
Suddenly over the face of the tortured woman came a wonderful change, a relief not mortal by its radiance. She sank back on her pillow in a vision of consolation. Jenny leaned over her. "Mother," she whispered, "don't you know me? It's Jenny! Jenny!" she cried in agony of longing to be recognized.
"Jenny," repeated her mother, as if trying to make the name fit in with some existing fact of knowledge. "Jenny?" she murmured more faintly. "No, not Jenny, Cupid."
"What's she mean?" whispered May.
"She's thinking of the ballet. It was last time she saw me on the stage."
"Cupid," Mrs. Raeburn went on. "Yes, it's Cupid. And Cupid means love. Love! God bless all good people. It's a fine day. Yes, it is a fine day. I'm very fond of this window, Carrie; I think it's such a cheerful view. Look at those lovely clouds. What a way you can see—right beyond the 'Angel' to the country. Those aunts are coming again. Tut, tut. What do they want to come here for? They sha'n't have her, they sha'n't have my Jenny. Jenny!" cried Mrs. Raeburn, recognizing at last her best-loved daughter. "I meant you to be so sweet and handsome, my Jenny! Oh, be good, my pretty one, my dainty one. I wish you'd see about that knob, Charlie. You never remember to get a new one."
Then, though her eyes were rapturous and gay again, her mind wandered further afield in broken sentences.
"I think you'd better kiss her good-bye," the nurse said.