Lizzie sat in an easy-chair, a crimson shawl wrapped around her, her eyes bright, her pale cheeks flushed with expectation. She arose at his entrance, and the next moment was clasped in his arms, while their mutual exclamations were:
"My dear Louis!"
"My dearest mother!"
There was a moment's silence; then Lizzie raised her head and surveyed him from head to foot, her face sparkling with pride and admiration.
"How tall you have grown! and how handsome you are!—handsome enough for a king, I think, Louis!" she said, delightedly.
"Are kings handsomer than other people, my dear mother?" he said, with a smile.
"Why, I suppose so; I never saw one. You are the very image of your poor dead father, too! Dear me! what an age it seems since we parted last!" said Lizzie, sinking back in her seat, with a sigh.
"I am sorry to find you so ill, mother," said Louis, gazing sadly into her thin, pale face, from which the bright glow was fast fading.
"Oh, I am always worse in the spring than at any other time. In a month or two I will be quite a different-looking individual," said Lizzie, hopefully.
An hour passed away, and then there came a tap at the door. Louis arose and opened it, and beheld Gipsy.