"That's what I meant about the star chamber," I rejoined. "I think it's right foolish, the way you all take to your heels when Charlie spends an evening here. There's a plenty of room in the parlour for us all."
"There shouldn't be," my mother made reply; "I never saw the room big enough for more than two when your father and I were lovers—which we were the longest day he lived," she added, her voice softening to the romantic note.
"And did you always want to be alone?" I asked seriously; "always alone together—before you were married, I mean?"
My mother smiled, her eyes half closing in reminiscent thought. "Yes, child," she answered slowly, "alone—together; I believe those two words describe nearly all the joy of life—alone—together. Don't you know what I mean, Helen?" and there was a deep tenderness in her voice as she dropped one of the cushions on a chair, coming close and taking me in her arms; "doesn't my dear one know the meaning of it? Oh, Helen, I want you to be so happy. And you will be, won't you—you are, aren't you, my darling? You love him, don't you, Helen?"
My face was hidden in her bosom. After a minute's silence she drew back, that she might look into my eyes. "You love him, don't you, dear?"
"Yes," I said, again seeking the shelter of her breast.
"I'm so glad, my darling," she murmured. Then she picked up the fallen cushion and went on her way up-stairs.
I stood by the piano, listlessly fingering some music sheets that lay on top of it. Suddenly the stillness was broken by my mother's voice.
"Helen," she cried; "oh, Helen."
"Yes, dear," I answered, stepping to the door.