She paused for a moment, as if to gain strength to continue; and then, in a low, passionate whisper, full of the maternal longing of an unsatisfied heart—
“Your child? May I kiss her once?”
Cornel bowed her head—she could not speak, but held the child a little forward, and Valentina bent down.
“Will you kiss me?” she asked.
The bright, innocent eyes looked smilingly up, and the silvery voice said, as the soft little arms clasped her neck—
“Yes, I’ll give you two.” Then, as she was held tightly for a few moments, “Do you like dear papa’s picture? I saw him make it. Is it you?”
The eager, wondering question sent a pang through three breasts, but not another word was uttered, till the invalid-chair and its attendants had passed through the door close by.
It was the child who broke the silence just as Cornel had stolen her hand to her husband’s side to press his with a long, firm, trusting grasp.
“Why did that lady cry when she kissed me, mamma? I know:” the child added quickly. “It was because that poor gentleman is so ill.”
It was the winter of the same year when Armstrong was seated by his studio fire with his child upon his knee, and Cornel upon the rug, with the warm light of the fire upon her cheek—not in the old studio, but the great, artistically furnished salon in Kensington. The door opened, and a gruff voice exclaimed—