“Heaven forgive me!” Mrs. de Vere muttered to herself humbly.
Norman looked at her wistfully, and continued:
“I suppose you can not quite enter into my feelings, mother. I saved the little thing’s life, and somehow she almost seems to belong to me. You can not think how sweet and winning she is, too. What a sunshine she would make in this quiet old house!”
“You can not dream of adopting her!” she cried, appalled.
“Certainly not—under the circumstances,” he replied, grimly. He paused a moment, then added: “Otherwise, nothing would give me more pleasure than to claim my protégée as an adopted daughter.”
“You are mad!” she cried, in dismay.
“I do not think so,” he replied, gently. A slight flush crept up to his temples as he added: “I do not believe that my wife will ever give me a child of my own to love, yet it is but natural I should desire one.”
The same pang, the same regret had touched her own heart, but she had borne it in silence. The tears started to her eyes as she said:
“We must keep on hoping, keep on waiting. In any case, Norman, think no more of this wild fancy. It is impossible you should defy Camille in this affair. Take my advice and carry Sweetheart away early to-morrow to some friend who will take care of her until her friends are found. She will be safe with me to-night.”
“Safe!” he cried, in a startled tone. “Mother, you do not mean—”