Maclean's hand relaxed upon my knee, and he sniffed audibly. But the answer brought my heart into my throat, for I knew who made it, beyond the possibility of mistake.
"Yes, dear," Mrs. Tabor said quietly. "What is it?"
"I wanted—to see you— Why didn't you come last time?— I get—lonely sometimes—"
"I couldn't come before. Aren't you happy?" She might have been speaking to a child crying in its bed.
"I want to—come back— I want—you, mother dear— I'm very happy, but I—went away too soon."
"But I've seen you every day at home, dear child."
"It isn't the—the same— I can't talk—to you—there— You're afraid of—something— I see fear—in your heart—and—that frightens me."
"You mustn't be afraid, Miriam—you mustn't. Nobody shall take you away!"
A flush and a wave of nausea went over me, and I felt my hair bristling, not with nervousness, but with a kind of anger. The unwholesomeness of the whole scene was too sickening—the poor mother's hysterical fondness, the utter sincerity of her emotion, and the sentimentalism that whined in reply, so perfectly calculated to irritate and control the crippled mind. And the element of distorted love made it all the worse, a beauty turned sour. I thought of the dainty little lady that had fenced with words so deftly; and only the need to understand once for all made me endure to listen.
"Ask something that no one but yourself can know," the professor put in. Perhaps even he felt some embarrassment.