Something darted down the stairs; one wouldn’t have said it was anything human, so swift was the motion; yet swifter than the flying feet, and very piteously human were the words that came from the mother’s heart:
“Is—is—she—dead?”
“No, I tell you, no; she’s alive and well. She’s at Thornby’s logging-camp—don’t faint! She’s all right; she’s safe, I tell you; don’t—”
Shawe was only just in time to catch the swaying form in his arms, and for the moment, as he stood there, holding the unconscious woman, he was unable to think what to do. It didn’t seem possible to him that the joy of his message could harm her; perhaps he ought to have broken it more gently—but how could he? It had to be told—— No—no—the joy couldn’t harm her! A little air, a touch of snow on her temples, and she would be herself again. He lifted his burden and turned to the open door. The clear light from without came searchingly in upon the still face on his breast, showing its pinched lines of distress and the ravages the tears had made in its fairness; he started at the sight, and uttered a sharp exclamation.
The keen air revived her; she stirred a trifle with a low moan; a minute later her eyelids fluttered, and her words came disjointedly in little sobbing breaths:
“Safe, my precious, safe—thank God, oh! thank——” The cold whipped a tinge of color into her lips; her eyes opened wide, and she stared up into Shawe’s face. A look of bewilderment suddenly clouded their gaze.
“You,” she said softly, “you—Humphrey?”
She did not move from his arm; but very slowly she lifted her hand and touched him wonderingly, her fingers lingering over his coat, and creeping up and up to his cheek.
“You, Humphrey—”
Something like a sob broke from him.