‘Mary, dear,’ she said, bending over her with an unusual infusion of emotion in her voice; ‘darling child.’
The arms moved instinctively, even before the eyes unclosed, and drew her mother down to her with a warm clinging embrace.
Love in Puritan families was often like latent caloric,—an all-pervading force that affected no visible thermometer, shown chiefly by a noble, silent confidence, a ready helpfulness, but seldom out-breathed in caresses,—yet natures like Mary’s always craved these outward demonstrations, and sprang towards them as a trailing vine sways to the nearest support. It was delightful for once fully to feel how much her mother loved her, as well as to know it.
‘Dear, precious mother, do you love me so very much?’
‘I live and breathe in you, Mary,’ said Mrs. Scudder, giving vent to herself in one of those trenchant short-hand expressions, wherein positive natures incline to résumé all when they must speak at all.
Mary held her mother silently to her breast, her heart shining through her face with a quiet radiance of love.
‘Do you feel happy this morning?’ said Mrs. Scudder.
‘Very, very, very happy, mother.’
‘I am so glad to hear you say so,’ said Mrs. Scudder, who, to say the truth, had entertained many doubts at her pillow the night before.