How familiar was the sound of her voice! It seemed to have been echoing, for years, from wall to wall in the mansion of my memory.
I made no effort to avail myself of the permission she had so curtly granted; but continued gazing at the two—my eyes alternately turning from mother to daughter—in a manner that must have appeared rude enough.
“Do you hear me?” said the old lady. “If you have no business here, why don’t you go away?”
There was an energy in her tone that touched another chord of memory. “It is certainly my mother,” thought I, “and I am at home once more.”
My soul was overwhelmed with a thousand emotions—more strong than had ever stirred it before. I know not whether they were of pleasure or of pain: for I could not analyse them then, and have never felt them before or since.
My actions were involuntary: for my thoughts were too much occupied to guide them.
A sofa stood near; and, throwing myself upon it, I tried to realise the fact that eleven years had passed, since parting with my relatives a boy, and that I had met them again, and was a boy no longer!
“Martha!” cried my mother, “go and bring a policeman!”
The young girl had been gazing at me, long and earnestly. She continued her gaze, without heeding the command thus addressed to her.
“Mother,” rejoined she, after an interval, “we have seen this man before; I’m sure I have.”