Rosalind seemed to rush upon them in a moment, as if she had lighted down from the skies. Even in the flickering artificial light they could see that she was as white as her dress and her face drawn and haggard. She came and stood by the table with her back to all the fluttering crowd beyond and the light streaming full upon her. “Uncle John,” she said, “mamma is dead, I have seen her; Amy and I have seen her. You drove her away, but she has come back to the children. I knew— I knew—that sometime she would come back.”
“Rosalind!” Mrs. Lennox rose, forgetting her rheumatism, and John Trevanion rushed to the girl and took her into his arms. “My darling, what is it? You are ill—you have been frightened.”
She leaned against his arm, supporting herself so, and lifted her pale face to his. “Mamma is dead, for I have seen her,” Rosalind said.
CHAPTER XLIX.
When Rosalind came to herself she had found little Amy in her white nightgown standing by her, clinging round her, her pretty hair, all tumbled and in disorder, hanging about the cheeks which were pressed against her sister’s, wet with tears. For a moment they said nothing to each other. Rosalind raised herself from her entire prostration and sat on the carpet holding Amy in her arms. They clung to each other, two hearts beating, two young souls full of anguish, yet exaltation; they were raised above all that was round them, above the common strain of speech and thought. The first words that Rosalind said were very low.
“Amy, did you see her?”
“Oh, yes, yes, Rosalind!”
“Did you know her?”
“Yes, Rosalind.”
“Have you seen her before?”