Julia had heard every particular of the story before she came home, for her father had written it to her, and had told her of Gertie’s illness, and Edith’s presence in Miss Rossiter’s house. Thus her first surprise and indignation had had time to abate, and now she was in a kind of bewildered state, incapable of realizing anything to the full, except the fact that in some sort her aunt had gone over to the enemy, leaving her alone on the old vantage ground of dislike and opposition to _that woman_ through whom all this had come upon them. Fortunately, however, for Julia, her mind was just then occupied with thoughts of a Southern bachelor, who had offered himself and his reputed half million for her acceptance. This offer she was duly considering when she came home, and after seeing how matters were at her Aunt Christine’s, and staying a day or two in the dark old house in Washington Square, she nearly made up her mind to accept it, though the man was forty and bored her nearly to death with his twaddling talk about his horses and dogs. She had not seen Edith during the one day and night spent at Miss Rossiter’s, neither had she mentioned her name or inquired for Gertie, except to ask if the fever was considered catching, and how her aunt liked having her house turned into a hospital! Of this indifference Edith knew nothing, and would not have cared if she had. All her thoughts were centred in that little, white-faced girl slowly groping her way back to life and reason, and talking now far more than she had done at first when the water was so still and the boat sailed so steadily. She was saved; she would live; there was no question about that, and Edith had only to wait patiently for the day when the blue eyes would first look at her with recognition in their glance, and the dear voice call her mother. Miss Rossiter had given her Gertie’s message, and she knew the words by heart, and repeated them to herself as she watched for the first faint sign of reason. It was on a pleasant April day, and the windows of the room were open, and the sun shone softly upon the plants which Miss Rossiter had placed outside the windows, where they made quite a little garden. Edith had been up all night, and was still sitting across the room, leaning her tired head upon her hand, when a sound caught her ear and brought her to her feet, where she stood listening intently, wondering if she could be mistaken, or had she heard the blessed name _mother_, and was she the mother meant and Gertie’s the voice which called her. “Mother, my mother,” it came again, and then Edith glided across the floor, and parting the silken hangings to the bed looked eagerly in. Gertie was awake, and sane, and thinking herself alone had tried to put things together and remember where she was, and what it was she heard _long ago_, which made her so glad. “Oh, I know I have a mother,” she said to herself, and it was this word Edith caught.