For a time Violet stood like one bereft of her senses. Her brain was in a whirl, her heart throbbed painfully; she was overcome by emotion, and the strange, wild joy of this meeting, which was more than she had dared hope for.
Rosamond Arleigh lay there before her, pale as death and greatly emaciated; but it was her mother, all the same. Starting at last from that rapt trance of delight, Violet stooped as though to take the wasted form in her hands.
“Mamma!” she cried, joyfully. But Doctor Danton laid his hand upon her shoulder and drew her gently away.
“Be quiet, my dear,” he said, softly; but his kind voice was trembling in spite of himself. “Do not awaken or disturb her. If you do, she—she may die.”
With trembling horror Violet fell back, and then Doctor Danton led her from the room. He seemed perfectly at home in the premises. No one came near him to inquire his business there; he seemed to have a right to take possession.
“You see, my child,” he began, as Violet sunk into a seat and leaned her head against its cushioned back, worn and weary, “I have quite a long story to tell you. But first you must have a glass of wine, and something to strengthen you.”
He soon procured the necessary refreshment, and after Violet had eaten and had drunk a glass of wine, she felt stronger and better.
“Now, tell me,” she urged, persuasively.
Doctor Danton smiled.
“Well, you have to thank our astute friend, Dunbar, over there, for all that has been done. He swore that he would never give up the search until Mrs. Arleigh was found, or proof positive that she was really dead—drowned in the little river on the road to Belleville. For Dunbar had never put much faith in the belief that she had met her death there, although he had found her slipper and cloak upon the very brink of the stream.