"Ah! no, dear. You knew I would observe every form of respect. I have been nowhere yet."
She glanced down meaningly at her black gown, and Dorette's olive skin flushed in a delicate fashion.
"I beg your pardon. You are right, as usual. Come in to ma mère."
Joyce followed the sweet-faced young woman, still carrying the little child who was so like her, and thus entered the large and pleasant living-room of the old house. In the embrasure of one broad window, seeming to focus all the light which streamed in freely through the thin, parted curtains, sat a woman in a gown of soft white wool, made with artistic simplicity. Her face had the same soft cream tint as her gown, and the hair, turned back in loose waves from her broad forehead, was of a purplish black, occasionally streaked with gray. All the features were clean-cut and delicate, but the expression in the large black eyes was that vague, appealing one which too surely indicates the utter loss of sight.
Evidently the woman, still exceptionally beautiful in her maturity, was hopelessly blind.
Joyce quickly set down the little one, and advanced on winged feet.
"Ma mère," she said in a voice almost of adoration, as she dropped to her knees beside the woman's chair, "Ma mère, I have come back."
"Dear one! Ma petite!" exclaimed the other in liquid southern accents, reaching out a delicate, trembling hand, which the girl caught and kissed devotedly. "We have longed for you. But we knew you would come! Let me see your face, child."
Joyce turned it upward and remained very still while the other lightly touched brow, eyes, lips, and chin, in a swift, assured fashion.
"Ah, you are truly the same little Joyce. There is the breadth between the eyes like an innocent child's, the straight, firm little nose like a Greek outline, the full curved lips—do you still pout when angry, chèrie?—and that square, decided turn to the chin, more apparent than ever. You have grown, Joyce; you are a woman now."