“Yes, Mary,” replied her mother, repressing her tears of joy at the sound of her child’s voice.
“Where’s Percy, mamma?”
But before Lucy could answer, she again relapsed into stupor. Another hour passed—there was reason in her glance. “Mamma? Percy—take me to him”—said Mary, with a burst of tears, as she strove vainly to rise from her couch.
“By-and-by, darling,” said her mother, coaxingly, laying her gently back upon the pillow, as she would an infant, “by-and-by, Mary, when you are stronger.”
“No—now” she replied, a spasm of pain contracting her features. “Is he—is he—there? How long have I lain here?”
“Two months, Mary.”
“Two months,” exclaimed poor Mary, in terror, “two months. O, mamma, if you ever loved me, if you want me to live—take me to him. Two months! He will think!—O, dear, mamma, take me to Percy!”
“Yes—yes, you shall go,” said Jacob, “only don’t cry. I would shed my heart’s blood to save you one tear. You shall go, Mary, even to that curs—”
“Well—well, I won’t say it,” said the old man, kissing her forehead; “but mind, it is only for your sake—here—Lucy, quick, she is fainting.”