O country the fairest!
Our country the dearest,
We press toward thee!
O Sion the golden!
Our eyes are still holden,
Thy light till we see.
We know not, we know not,
All human words show not
The joys we may reach.
The mansions preparing,
The joys for our sharing,
The welcome for each.’
Then Belle opened the door softly and went in.
Pauline saw a large bay window opening into a tiny conservatory, which loving hands kept dowered with a profusion of blooming plants. The room was large and dainty with delicate draperies, two or three fine pictures, and a beautiful representation in marble of the Angel of Patience, which stood on a buhl table, where the invalid’s eyes could always rest upon it.
Tryphosa turned her head to greet them from the low couch, which was the battle-ground where she had wrestled with the angel of pain during years of physical agony. Her eyes were lustrous with a radiance not of earth, and a wealth of silver hair fell in soft curling waves about her face; her mouth, sweet and tender, parted in a smile of welcome as she held out her hands to the girls.
Belle caught them in her own, and kissed them gently.
‘This is our cousin, my lady, Aunt Mildred’s only child.’
The thin hands drew Pauline’s face down, and she was kissed on cheek and brow.
‘Your mother was my friend, dear child, in the long ago.’ Then she added softly, with her hands on the silver cross at her throat, ‘Are you a princess? Do you belong to the King?’
Pauline shook her head, ‘No, my lady.’