He signed to the wondering Mary to leave the room. His look, his gesture, were imperative, and the girl reluctantly obeyed. “Poor creature!” he said, turning to the Madame again, “I do not reproach you, nor does she. No, her gentle heart is--has ever been--filled with sisterly affection toward you, and she now waits impatiently to be summoned to your presence.” “Waits, do you say? Is she here?--my sister--my darling! Where? where? Oh, I beseech you not to keep us another moment apart!” And she started up, wringing her hands and looking imploringly into his face. “Calm yourself, Nannette; this agitation will hurt you,” he said in a kindly tone, gently forcing her back into her chair. “Your niece--my Ethel’s dear child--has told us of your invalid state, and I see that this excitement has almost deprived you of the power to breathe.” “Don’t stop to talk now!” she panted, pushing him from her. “I shall go wild! Go, go and bring her! Bring her, or I shall die before your eyes!” And she struggled frantically for breath. He was frightened lest she should indeed fail to recover it. He glanced hurriedly about the room, sprang to the bell-pull, but as he laid his hand on it, Mary, listening at an inner door, threw it open and rushed in. “You’d better have let me stay, you see, sir,” she said a little sarcastically. “But don’t be scared. It’s more hysterics than anything else, and they’re not dangerous. I’ll bring her round presently.” “Oh, will you go?” gasped the Madame, looking at her visitor and drawing a long breath that ended in almost a shriek. “As soon as you are calm, Nannette,” he answered pityingly; “but till then I dare not bring her.” “You’d better go out, sir, and I’ll call you the moment she’s fit,” said Mary. And he went. Espy, standing in the open door of an opposite room, beckoned Mr. Heywood in there. Downstairs mother and daughter waited, in no haste to be called; for what greater joy than to be as they were now for the first time in so many, many years--alone together, and clasped in each other’s arms, cheek to cheek and heart to heart. They sat in silence, broken only now and then by a sob (for the deepest joy is strangely akin to grief in its outward manifestations) or a whispered word of endearment. “My precious, precious child! my long-lost darling!” “Mother, mother! sweetest, dearest, darling mother!” It was Mr. Heywood who at length broke in upon the glad interview. “Ethel, love, my dear wife,” and his hand touched her hair gently, caressingly, “she will see you now.” Mrs. Heywood started, strained her new-found daughter once more to her bosom with a long, silent, most tender caress, and, releasing her, left the room, leaning on her husband’s arm. She needed its strong support, for she was trembling very much.