Her mother's face brightened into life; an anxious gleam shone in her eyes which now held no uncertainty, but were the homes of an insistent purpose, a keen desire. She struggled a moment, then spoke, faintly.
"Your brother?"—
"Yes. Yes."
"Not really—only your half-brother—but you always cared just as much"—
"More. Oh, mother, a thousand times more. Don't waste time in saying all this. Is it something you want me to do for Lionel? Surely you know that anything I could do would be all too little—tell me, just tell me what it is. I swear to do it, whatever it may be."
"See to him. His father—you know"—
"I know."
"—Doesn't understand children—the little fellow may be hungry, cold"—Clara Allardi's voice broke into a pitiful quaver which shook Lynn's composure, terribly.
"Mother," she said, growing white and speaking distinctly, "you are wasting time and you may not have much more time. You know—you must know—that, while I live, Liol shall want for nothing that I can give him. He can never be cold—or hungry—or friendless—or—loveless—while I live. You must know all that. I have my teacher's salary; if that is not enough I will get money in some other way; I have some saved, I have some jewelry—oh, don't talk of anything so trivial, so absurd, as the idea of Lionel ever wanting for anything which I can give him. You understand all that, don't you, mother?"
Her mother's face cleared, then clouded.