The old lady trembled, she looked with an earnest glance of inquiry at the wild, haggard face of her visitor, and then bursting into tears took a step forward, and opening her arms exclaimed,—
“Margaret, my daughter!”
The hard heart melted for a moment, tears gushed from eyes dry before, and the two were folded in a close embrace.
Then the old lady drew back a step, and gazed long and earnestly at her daughter.
“You find me changed, mother,” said Margaret, abruptly.
“It is years since we met,” was the sad reply. “I might have expected to find you changed.”
“But not such a change,” replied Margaret. “It is not years alone that have wrought the change in me. But you don’t—you cannot see the greater change,” she continued with rapidity, “that has taken place in my heart. It is a woful change, mother.”
Her mother marked, with alarm, the excitement of her manner, her quick breathing, and the flush upon her cheeks.
“Your clothes are wet, Margaret,” she said, anxiously. “This terrible storm has drenched you. You must change them instantly, or you will get your death of cold.”
“Ah, that reminds me,” said Margaret, waywardly, “you haven’t admired my clothes yet. They are very rich and becoming, are they not? This shawl,” and she lifted up the tattered rag and spread it out, while the rain dropped from it upon the floor, “have you ever seen a more beautiful one? And this dress,”—she held it up in her fingers,—“how much it resembles the soft silk I wore at my wedding—yes, my wedding,” she repeated, with startling emphasis.