And Hugh, stronger now than she, held the poor, tired head there, and kissed the white forehead, where there were more wrinkles than when he last observed it.
Folding his weak arms about her, mother and son wept together in that moment of perfect understanding and union with each other. Hugh was the first to rally. It seemed so pleasant to lean on him, to know that he cared so much for her, that Mrs. Worthington would gladly have rested on his bosom longer, but Hugh who noticed that she held an open letter in her hand brought her back to something of the old, sad life, by asking.
“If the letter were from ’Lina?”
“Yes, and I can’t make it all out you know she writes so blind.”
“It never troubles me, and I feel perfectly able to read it,” Hugh said, and taking the letter from her unresisting hand, he asked that another pillow should be placed beneath his head, while he read it aloud.
The pillow was arranged, and then Mrs. Worthington sat down upon the bed to hear the letter, which read as follows:
“Fifth Avenue Hotel, New York,
“October, 1860:
“Dear Mother,—
“What a little eternity it is since I heard from you, and how am I to know that you are not all dead and buried. Were it not that no news is good news, I should sometimes fancy that Hugh was worse, and feel terribly for not having gone home when you did. But of course if he were worse, you would write, and so I settle down upon that, and quiet my troublesome conscience.