Mary could only confess the fact with tears, her distress in as strange contrast with the gaiety of her dress as with the strains of the neighbouring band, which told of festivity and pleasure. Perhaps some thought of this nature forced itself upon Lady Sybil’s light and evasive mind: for as she looked, the cynical expression of her eyes gave place to one of feeling and emotion, better fitted to those wasted features as well as to the relation in which the two stood to one another. She looked down the path, as if for the first time she feared an intrusive eye. Then her glance reverted to her daughter’s slender form and drooping head: and again it changed, it grew soft, it grew pitiful. The laurels shut all in, the path was empty. The maternal feeling, long repressed, long denied, long buried under a mountain of pique and resentment, of fancied wrongs and real neglect, broke forth irresistibly. In a step she was at the girl’s side, and snatching her to her bosom in a fierce embrace, was covering her face, her neck, her hair with hungry kisses. The action was so sudden, so unexpected, that crushed and even hurt by the other’s grasp, and frightened by her vehemence, Mary would have resisted, would have tried to free herself. Then she understood. And a rush of pent-up affection, of love and pity, carried away the barriers of constraint and timidity. She clung to Lady Sybil with tears of joy, murmuring low broken words, calling her “Mother, Mother,” burying her face on her shoulder, pressing herself against her. In a moment her being was stirred to its depths. In all her life no one had caressed her after this fashion, no one had embraced her with passion, no one had kissed her with more than the placid affection which gentleness and goodness earn, and which kind offices kindly performed warrant. Even Sir Robert, even her father, proud as he was of her, much as he loved her, had awakened in her respect and gratitude—mingled with fear—rather than love. After a time, warned by approaching voices, Lady Sybil put her from her; but with a low and exultant laugh. “You are mine, now!” she said, “Mine! Mine! You will come to me when I want you. And I shall want you soon! Very soon!” Mary laid hold of her again. “Let me come now!” she cried with passion, forgetting all but the mother she had gained, the clinging arms which had cherished her, the kisses that had rained on her. “Let me come to you! You are ill!”