"Mother," said Nellie in a smothered voice, "I am not alone. Roger More came with me. Without him it would have been impossible."
"Roger More—Roger More," repeated Mrs. Netterville, trying to gather together her memories of the days gone by. "It was in the arms of a Roger More that your father breathed his last."
"In mine, dear lady!" cried Roger, unable any longer to resist the temptation of presenting himself to Nellie's mother—"in mine! And knowing that the father did me the honor to call me friend, Lord Netterville has had the great kindness to entrust me with the daughter in this long journey, which the love she bears you compelled her to undertake."
Something in the tones of Roger's voice, rather than in the words he uttered, seemed to strike on the mother's ear. She smiled a grateful smile of recognition, and then turned a questioning glance, first upon his face and afterward on Nellie's. Perhaps Roger interpreted that glance aright. At all events, he took Nellie's hand, and, as if moved by a sudden inspiration, laid it on her mother's, saying:
"Only the day after that on which I saw her first, I told her that I would never ask for this dear hand until her mother was by to give it."
"Her mother gives it," said Mrs. Netterville solemnly. "Yes! for I guess by Nellie's silence that her heart is not far from you already."
"Mother, mother!" cried Nellie, resisting Mrs. Netterville's feeble efforts to place her hand in Roger's—"not here—not now—not when you are dying."
"For that very reason," gasped the mother. "My son," she added, fixing her eyes full on Roger, "you can understand. I would see my Nellie in safe hands before I go."
"It would be the fulfilment of my dearest wish," said Roger earnestly, "if only it be possible."