Dora started as if she had been stung, and a sudden tremor crossed the rigid calm of her demeanor. She had schooled herself to indifference, to neglect or to civil thanks worse than either: but this unexpected tenderness, this sisterly recognition, went straight through all its defences to her quivering heart; and she looked up piteously into the lovely face bent over her, whispering,—
"I am so glad you have found her! but I have nothing left half so dear."
There was no reply; for Sunshine, without sound or movement, suddenly opened her eyes, and fixed them upon her mother's face, while deep in their blue depths grew a glad smile, breaking at last, like a veritable sungleam, all over her face, as, holding out her arms, she eagerly said,—
"I've come to heaven while I was asleep; and you're the angel that loves me so dearly well. I know you by your eyes."
"The mother clasped her own,—as who shall blame her?-and Dora's arms and Dora's heart were empty, robbed of the nestling they had cherished,—empty, as she said to herself, turning from the sight of that maternal bliss, of the best love she had ever known, or could ever hope."
Mr. Burroughs, who liked character-reading, watched her narrowly; and when, presently, the whole party returned to Mrs. Legrange's hotel, he quietly walked beside Dora, lingering a little, and detaining her out of hearing of Mrs. Legrange and Teddy, who walked on with Sunshine between them.
"Is virtue its own reward, Miss Dora?" asked he abruptly, when almost half the distance between the two hotels was passed.
Dora looked at him a little puzzled; and then, as she read the half-sympathizing, half-mocking expression of his face, answered,—
"You mean I am not happy in bringing Sunshine back to her mother; don't you?"
"Exactly; and you told me once that no one ought to be rewarded for doing what is right, because it is reward enough to know that we are doing right."