But these words seemed to set Erminie’s spirit free.
“Have you? have you? Oh, have you, indeed, Alberta? Then you are welcome! welcome! thrice welcome! to my heart and home, and to our country’s cause, Alberta. Sit down, love, and rest here, and let me take off your wrappings,” she said, gently forcing her visitor into the easiest chair, and tenderly untying and removing her bonnet.
“You wonder at seeing me here?” said Alberta.
“No, indeed; I wonder at nothing in these days,” smiled Erminie.
“I must tell you, however, why I have intruded upon you.”
“Your visit is no intrusion, and you shall tell me nothing more, dear Alberta, until you are rested and refreshed. Tea will be ready very soon, and after you have had it, you shall share my chamber, and in its privacy tell me what you like. Just now, it is enough for me to hear that you have returned to your old allegiance, and to see that you are weary and sorrowful.”
Again that strange discordant laugh broke from Alberta’s pallid lips, and jarred harshly upon the ears of her hearers.
Erminie felt that she would rather have seen her weep than heard her laugh so strangely. Her act was more like hysteria or even madness.
The girls had been sitting in the light of the fire, which the chill of the early autumn evening rendered very welcome. But now Erminie arose and lighted the gas. And then they saw their visitor plainly.
Alberta was awfully changed, and Erminie shuddered as she gazed on her. Her dress was all black, but rusty and travel-stained. Her face and form were still beautiful, but the “glory” of their beauty was “obscured.” Her once oval face was lengthened and hollowed, her perfect features pinched and sharpened; her fair complexion sun-burned, her brilliant hair faded, her graceful form emaciated.