I was so startled by her sudden appearance--as if she had walked out of my prayers, like an angel; and, above all, by that resemblance to the one long since dust and unremembered of all men's hearts save mine, that I could hardly bear to look upon her. That other one seemed to have stepped delicately out of her untimely grave; to sit once more beside me, and thus to look at me once more with unforgotten eyes. Thou knowest, my God, before whom all hearts are bare, that I could not have loved thee so singly nor served thee without fainting, all these years, if for one faithless moment I could have forgotten her! My mother came out of the house with a garden hat tied over her white hair, and big garden gloves on her hands. At sight of the girl she uttered a joyful shriek, flung scissors and trowel and basket aside, and rushed forward. With catlike quickness the girl leaped to her feet and the two met and fell into each other's arms. I wished when I saw the little woman's arms close so about the girl, and the look that flashed into her face, that heaven had granted her a daughter. "Mother complained that I should at least have the decency to wire you I was coming--she said I was behaving like a child. But I wanted to walk in unannounced. I was so sure, you see, that there'd be welcome and room for me at the Parish House." "The little room you used to like so much is waiting for you," said my mother, happily. "Next to yours, all in blue and white, with the Madonna of the Chair over the mantelpiece and the two china shepherdesses under her?" "Then you shall see the new baby in the bigger Guest Room, and the crippled Polish child in the small one," said my mother. "The baby's name is Smelka Zurawawski, but she's all the better for it--I never saw a nicer baby. And the little boy is so patient and so intelligent, and so pretty! Dr. Westmoreland thinks he can be cured, and we hope to be able to send him on to Johns Hopkins, after we've got him in good shape. Where is your luggage? How long may we keep you? But first of all you shall have tea and some of Clélie's cakes. Clélie has grown horribly vain of her cakes. She expects to make them in heaven some of these days, for the most exclusive of the cherubim and seraphim, and the lordliest of the principalities and powers." Mary Virginia smiled at the pleased old servant. "I've half a dozen gorgeous Madras head-handkerchiefs for you, Clélie, and a perfect duck of a black frock which you are positively to make up and wear now--you are _not_ to save it up to be buried in!" "No'm, Miss Mary Virginia. I won't get buried in it. I'll maybe get married in it," said Clélie calmly. "Married! Clélie!" said my mother, in consternation. "Do you mean to tell me you're planning to leave me, at this time of our lives?" Clélie was indignant. "You think I have no mo'sense than to leave you and M'sieu Armand, for some strange nigger? Not me!"