But when they had reached the house, and were admitted, this half-hysterical courage had fled.

“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.

Then the mother began, in her despair,

“My—­my daughter—­you—­do—­know me?”

But the girl, not looking up, murmured some few words in a language Brand did not understand; and at the sound of them the mother uttered a wild cry of joy, and drew her daughter closer to her, and laid her streaming, worn, sad face on the beautiful hair.  They spoke together in that tongue; the sounds were soft and tender to the ear; perhaps it was the yearning of love that made them so.

Then Natalie remembered her promise.  She gently released herself; she led her mother to a sofa, and made her sit down; she threw herself on her knees beside her, and kissed her hand; then she buried her head in her mother’s lap.  She sobbed once or twice; she was determined not to give way to tears.  And the mother stroked the soft hair of the girl, which she could hardly see, for her eyes were full; and from time to time she spoke to her in those gentle, trembling tones, bending over her and speaking close to her ear.  The girl was silent; perhaps afraid to awake from a dream.

“Natalie,” said George Brand.

She sprung to her feet.

“Oh, I beg your pardon—­I beg your pardon!” she said, hurriedly.  “I had forgotten—­”

“No, you have not forgotten,” he said, with a smile.  “You have remembered; you have behaved well.  Now that I have seen you through it, I am going; you ought to be by yourselves.”

“Oh no!” she said, in a bewildered way.  “Without you I am useless:  I cannot think.  I should go on talking and talking to my mother all day, all night—­because—­because my heart is full.  But—­but one must do something.  Why is she here?  She will come home with me—­now!”