"My dear son!"
He held her in a prolonged embrace. When he finally released her, she applied a morsel of lace to her eyes.
"My wife, mother," he said in a voice of immeasurable content and pride, placing Indiana in her arms. "Your daughter, Indiana."
Lady Canning was conscious of holding a morsel of humanity in her arms and of pressing her lips to a childish cheek. Then, as she surveyed her, she received an impression of something very young and small, with the coloring of an apple-blossom, whose deep-blue eyes met hers, struggling between consciousness, laughter and tears.
Realizing that her vague fears had no worse foundation than this childish creature, daintily costumed, her relief was so great that she took her in her arms again and pressed another kiss on her forehead.
Though Thurston had been perfectly confident of the effect Indiana would produce, he was none the less delighted at this mark of favorable impression.
"My dear child," said Lady Canning, "you must look upon me as a mother—you are still too young to be without one."
In order to control her tears, Indiana bit her handkerchief, which she was nervously rolling in her hands. The difference between her mother's last despairing kiss and the touch of Lady Canning's calm lips, was too strong.
"You no doubt wish to go to your apartments now, my dear," said Lady Canning, kindly.
"Yes, I should," agreed Indiana with a little, nervous laugh. She was quite indifferent about going to her apartments just then, but there was such a sure assumption of her acquiescence in Lady Canning's tone it was almost equivalent to an order.