Agatha's laughter came to a sudden end. She sprang to her feet.
"Here is Edwy Darkham," said Agatha, moving to the window—"and looking so wild! Aunt Hilda, do come here! Oh!"—anxiously— "surely there is something wrong with him."
Across the lawn, running uncouthly, hideously—rolling from side to side—yet with astonishing speed, the idiot came. His huge head was thrown up, and the beauty that was in his face when it was in repose was now all gone. He was mouthing horribly, and inarticulate cries seemed to be bursting from his lips.
Agatha struck by the great terror that so evidently possessed him, conquered all fear, and springing out of the low French window, ran to meet him.
At times she shrank from him—not always. Deep pity for him lay within her heart, because he was so docile, and because he clung to her so, poor thing! and seemed to find such comfort in her presence. She had been specially kind in her manner to his mother often because of him, and perhaps that kindness to her—the mother—whom the poor, handsome, ill-shapen idiot adored, had been the first cause of his affection for Agatha. She had always been good to Edwy, in spite of her detestation of his father, and now, when the unhappy creature was in such evident trouble—a trouble that rendered him a thousand times more repulsive than usual—she lost her fear of him, and ran down the balcony steps to meet him.
He was unhappy—this poor boy, whose soul was but an empty shell! What ailed him? All her young, strong, gentle heart went out to him.
"Edwy! Edwy!" cried she, as eloquently as though he could hear her.
He rushed to her, and caught her arm, and sank on his knees before her.
"Sho! Sho! Sho!" he yelled.
It was his one word. To him it meant "mother."