e's hand, resting on Antoinette's shoulder, trembled there. It may
well have been my own weakness which made me think her body swayed, which
made me reach out as if to catch her. However marvellous her strength
and fortitude, these could not last forever. And--Heaven help me--my own
were fast failing. Once the room had seemed to me all in darkness. Then
I saw the Vicomtesse leaning tenderly over her cousin and whispering in
her ear, and Antoinette rising, clinging to her.

"I will go," she faltered, "I will go. He must not know I have been
here. You--you will not tell him?"

"No, I shall not tell him," answered the Vicomtesse.

"And--you will send word to me, Helene?"

"Yes, dear."

Antoinette kissed her, and began to adjust her veil mechanically. I
looked on, bewildered by the workings of the feminine mind. Why was she
going? The Vicomtesse gave me no hint. 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. I will go to her. She cannot forbid me now. Helene has been
with her," she said, turning to where the Vicomtesse stood watching her
intently. "Helene has been with her. And shall I, who have longed to
see her these many years, leave her now?"

"But you