"One moment, dearest; give me one moment," she said, at the foot of the stairs, as if her breath failed her, and she put her hand on his arm.
"Now, Natalie," he whispered, "you must think of your
mother as an invalid—not to be excited, you understand; there is to be no scene."
"Yes, yes," she said, but she scarcely heard him.
"Now go," he said, "and I will wait here."
"No, I wish you to come," she said.
"You ought to be alone with her."
"I wish you to come," she repeated; and she took his hand.
They went up-stairs; the door was wide open; a figure stood in the middle of the room. Natalie entered first; she was very white, that was all. It was the other woman who was trembling—trembling with anxious fears, and forgetful of every one of the English phrases she had learned.
The girl at the door hesitated but for a moment. Breathless, wondering, she beheld this vision—worn as the face was, she recognized in it the features she had learned to love; and there were the dark and tender eyes she had so often held commune with when she was alone. It was only because she was so startled that she thus hesitated; the next instant she was in her mother's arms held tight there, her head against her bosom.