And Mrs. Hart raised her face, and in her face he read a love infinite, all-consuming, imperishable--a love which now, however, satiated and intoxicated itself in the look that she gave.
She said nothing more, but, clinging to him, she seemed to hold him to her weary heart as though she feared that something might take him away.
"Forgive me, my own; do not be angry, my dearest," she murmured, "with your poor old nurse. I left home long, long ago. I rose from my sick-bed to seek you. I came here, and have watched and watched for a long time. Oh, how long! But you never came."
"You! watching for me! here in Florence!" exclaimed Lord Chetwynde, in wonder. "My poor old dear! why?"
"I will tell you again--not now--I am too weak. Hold my hands fast, my own. Let me see your dear face--oh, how dear!"
And with her hands in his, and her eyes feeding her soul upon his face, she lay upon his breast.
Meanwhile Obed Chute had stood thunderstruck. To account for this amazing scene was so utterly impossible that he did not even attempt it. That was beyond the reach of human capacity. But he noted all that holy tenderness, and that unfathomable love which beamed from that wan, worn face, and he felt that this was not a scene for other eyes. He went softly over to Zillah, who had stood motionless hitherto, and taking her hand he led her solemnly out of the room.
They went into another apartment, and sat there in silence. Zillah was so filled with amazement that it overwhelmed her.
She had seen Mrs. Hart's joy. She had heard her give to Windham the name of "Guy." She had heard him call her those tender, well-known names--the fond names with which the letters of Guy Molyneux used always to be filled. What did all this mean?
God in heaven! Was this a dream, or a reality? Could there, indeed, be truth in this scene? Could this be possibly what it seemed to be? Was Windham Guy Molyneux?