“Yes, he has,” Eva went on, with such an air of inexpressible triumph that it had almost a religious quality in it. “He has. He left her a long time ago. He—he wanted to come back to me and Amabel, but he was ashamed, but finally he came to the asylum, and then it all rolled off, all the trouble. The doctors said I had been getting better, but they didn't know. It was—Jim's comin' back. He's took me home, and I've come for Amabel, and—he's got a job in Lloyd's, and he's bought me this new hat and cape.” Eva flirted her free arm, and a sweep of jetted silk gleamed, then she tossed her head consciously to display a hat with a knot of pink roses. Then she kissed Amabel again. “Mamma's come back,” she whispered.
“Mamma, mamma!” cried Amabel.
Andrew and Fanny looked at each other.
“Where is he?” asked Andrew, in a slow, halting voice.
Eva glanced from one to the other defiantly. “He's outside, waitin' in the road,” said she; “but he ain't comin' in unless you treat him just the same as ever. I've set my veto on that.” Eva's voice and manner as she said that were so unmistakably her own that all Fanny's doubt of her sanity vanished. She sobbed aloud.
“O God, I'm so thankful! She's come home, and she's all right! O God, I'm so thankful!”
“What about Jim?” asked Eva, with her old, proud, defiant look.
“Of course he's comin' in,” sobbed Fanny. “Andrew, you go—”
But Andrew had already gone, unlocking the parlor door on his way. “It's your aunt Eva, Ellen,” he said as he passed. “She's come home cured, and your uncle Jim is out in the yard, and I'm goin' to call him in. I guess you'd better go out and see her.”