But suddenly the girl's arms
fell to her sides, and she stood staring, not so much as a cry escaping
her. The bedroom doors had been opened, and between them was the tall
figure of Nicholas Temple. So they met again after many years, and she
who had parted them had brought them together once more. He came a step
into the room, as though her eyes had drawn him so far. Even then he did
not speak her name.
"Go," he said. "Go, you must not stay here. Go!"
She bowed her head.
"I was going," she answered. "I--I am going."
"But you must go at once," he cried excitedly. "Do you know what is in
there?" and he pointed towards the bedroom.
"Yes, yes, I know," she said, "I know."
"Then go," he cried. "As it is you have risked too much."
She lifted up her head and looked at him. There was a new-born note in
her voice, a tremulous note of joy in the midst of sorrow. It was of her
he was thinking!
"And you?" she said. "You have come and remained."
"She is my mother," he answered. "God knows it was the least I could
have done."
Twice she had changed before our eyes, and now we beheld a new and yet
more startling transformation. When she spoke there was no reproach in
her voice, but triumph. Antoinette undid her veil.
"Yes, she is your mother," she answered; "but for many years she has been
my friend.
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