After a while, she began again. “Yes; I see a change in you,” she whispered—“an interesting change which tells me something. Can you guess what it is?”
Stella’s color rose brightly, and faded again.
She laid her head in silence on her mother’s bosom. Worldly, frivolous, self-interested, Mrs. Eyrecourt’s nature was the nature of a woman—and the one great trial and triumph of a woman’s life, appealing to her as a trial and a triumph soon to come to her own child, touched fibers under the hardened surface of her heart which were still unprofaned. “My poor darling,” she said, “have you told the good news to your husband?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t care, now, for anything that I can tell him.”
“Nonsense, Stella! You may win him back to you by a word—and do you hesitate to say the word? I shall tell him!”
Stella suddenly drew herself away from her mother’s caressing arm. “If you do,” she cried, “no words can say how inconsiderate and how cruel I shall think you. Promise—on your word of honor—promise you will leave it to me!”
“Will you tell him, yourself—if I leave it to you?”
“Yes—at my own time. Promise!”