"You wouldn't let me go away when it would have been some use," she said; "leave me in peace now."
A horrible fear clutched at the resolute heart of the mother as she took fresh and sudden note of the wasted frame, the languid, long, transparent hands, the far-away vision of the eyes.
"No, I wouldn't let you go alone and unprotected. But now that John and his wife are settled in New York it's a different story altogether. You can stay with them, and—and study sculpture for a while," she added, with a visible effort.
Valeria shook her head. But there was a new light in the hollow eyes. Little by little she was seen to be in reality feverishly bent on availing herself of her mother's late concession. Mrs. Gano was as good as her word. She put no further obstacle in the way, and, though it was the depth of winter, took the long journey with her daughter, arriving at her son's house much exhausted, to find Mrs. John ill in bed, a mutiny among the servants, and a scene of inexpressible confusion and disorder, in the midst of which stood Val, turbulent and triumphant. Nor did she budge upon the usually subduing apparition of Mrs. Gano. Dirty and neglected, an impudent little face with bold gray eyes looking out from a wild swirl of tawny hair, there she stood in the middle of the untidy dining-room, aided and abetted in some unspeakable enormity by the mere presence of her faithful ally, a huge St. Bernard dog.
"My patience!" exclaimed Mrs. Gano, surveying the scene.
"Why, it's my dear little namesake," said Aunt Valeria, with a kind of gentle incredulity, as she moved forward.
Her dear little namesake retreated, dragging the great dog back with her by the collar.
"That my granddaughter!"
Mrs. Gano spoke with mixed emotion, and hurriedly put on her spectacles.
"My darling," said Aunt Valeria, watching the dog with the tail of her eye, "come and kiss me."