When this had gone on for some time, Mary in her excitement could bear it no longer. She raised her child suddenly in her arms, clasping her close, taking possession of her in a transport of love and pity. “Hetty!” she cried, “Hetty!” almost with a shriek. “What is it? what is it? Tell me what it is!” The girl uttered another cry, a wild and piercing shriek, as shrill as that which on the former occasion had roused the house. She started up in her bed, struggling, pushing Mrs. Asquith’s arms away, looking wildly round her with the frantic gaze of terror. Then all at once the contrast seemed to reach her stunned soul--not darkness and the awful visitant who had driven her out of herself, but light and that beloved face which poor Hetty thought she had not seen for years. She gave another cry of recognition, “Mother!” and flung herself upon her mother’s breast. Mrs. Asquith trembled with the shock, for Hetty plunged into her arms and buried her face as if she had fled into some place of refuge; but if it had been the weight of the great house, as well as that of Hetty, Mary could have borne it in the sudden hope and relief of her soul. “My dearest!” she said, “my sweet, my own Hetty, I’m here. There’s nobody can touch you, I’m here! Don’t you know, my darling, your mother? There’s nobody can touch you while I am here!” Hetty made no response in words, but she suspended her whole weight upon her mother, clinging to her, burrowing with her head on Mary’s bosom. It was no ordinary embrace; it was the taking of sanctuary, the entry into a city of refuge. So far as the child was aware, she had found her natural protector for the first time. She hid herself in Mary, disappearing almost in the close clasping arms, in the soft shield and shelter of her mother’s form. Mary’s head was bowed down on Hetty’s; her shoulders curved about her; the girl’s slim white figure almost disappeared, all pressed, folded, enclosed in the mother’s embrace. This was what the housekeeper saw when she rushed to the door, roused by the scream, expecting some repetition of the former scene. Mary signed to her with her eyes, having no other part of her free, to go away. She made the same sign to Miss Hofland, who appeared in her nightdress, trembling and distressed, behind the well-clothed housekeeper. Mary felt that she dared not speak to them, dared not even move or say a word. The success of all depended on her being left alone with her child. Even the movement of this interruption, however, though hushed and full of precaution, aided the clearing of Hetty’s brain. She raised her head for a moment, gave a furtive glance round. “Is he--is he--gone, mamma?” “Yes, my darling; there is no one here but you and I.”