And then Frances raised herself; for, to her astonishment, she was lying down upon a sofa, and looked round her, bewildered. Beside her stood a little lady, about her own height, with smooth brown hair like hers, with her hands clasped, just as Frances was aware she had herself a custom of clasping her hands. It began to dawn upon her that Constance had said she was very like mamma. This new-comer was beautifully dressed in soft black satin, that did not rustle--that was far, far too harsh a word--but swept softly about her with the faintest pleasant sound; and round her breathed that atmosphere which Frances felt would mean mother to her for ever and ever,--an air that was infinitely soft, with a touch in it of some sweetness. Oh, not scent! She rejected the word with disdain--something, nothing, the atmosphere of a mother. In the curious ecstasy in which she was, made up of fatigue, wonder, and the excitement of this astounding plunge into the unknown, that was how she felt. “Let me look at you, my child. I can’t think of her as a grown girl, Markham. Don’t you know she is my baby. She has never grown up, like the rest of you, to me. Oh, did you never wish for me, little Frances? Did you never want your mother, my darling? Often, often, I have lain awake in the night and cried for you.” “Oh mamma!” cried Frances, forgetting her shyness, throwing herself into her mother’s arms. The temptation to tell her that she had never known anything about her mother, to excuse herself at her father’s expense, was strong. But she kept back the words that were at her lips. “I have always wanted this all my life,” she cried, with a sudden impulse, and laid her head upon her mother’s breast, feeling in all the commotion and melting of her heart a consciousness of the accessories, the rich softness of the satin, the delicate perfume, all the details of the new personality by which her own was surrounded on every side. “Now I see,” cried the new-found mother, “it was no use parting this child and me, Markham. It is all the same between us--isn’t it, my darling?--as if we had always been together--all the same in a moment. Come up-stairs now, if you feel able, dear one. Do you think, Markham, she is able to walk up-stairs?” “Oh, quite able; oh, quite, quite well. It was only for a moment. I was--frightened, I think.”