“What answer am I to take to Tom Valentine?” he asked.
Then I raised my head.
“Tell him to come to see me,” I said.
“Good gracious! Do you mean it?”
“I do mean it.”
“When is he to come?”
“To-night, if he likes—the sooner the better.”
I rushed away, I flew up the wide stairs. My one desire was to take refuge in my mother’s room. A wide bay-window faced the sofa where she lay. The sun had set more than half an hour ago, but faint rose tints still lingered in the sky, and a full moon was showing her cold but brilliant face. The weather was turning quite genial and spring-like. Under ordinary circumstances I should not have cared to sit so near the fire. Now I huddled up to it, glad of its warmth, for I was shivering slightly, with the queerest mixture of suppressed excitement, despair, and yet gladness. Now and then I glanced at my mother. From where she lay I could only see a dim outline of her figure. She was lying very still; her hands were peacefully folded by her side; her breathing came gently; there was repose about her attitude.
Her voice, very sweet and clear, soon broke the silence.
“Rose, come here, darling.”