"My dearest, let us go! I can bear no more: my heart will break! See, am I not calm enough? Do I tremble?" "No, you are very courageous," he said, looking at her doubtfully. "Let us go!--let us go!" Her entreaties overcame his scruples. The things she had thrown aside on coming in from her morning walk still lay there; she hastily put them on; and she herself led the way down-stairs. He put her into the hansom, and followed; the man drove off. She held her lover's hand tight, as a sign of her gratitude. "Mind, I depend on you, Natalie," he said. "Oh, do not fear," she said, rather wildly; "why should one fear? It seems to me all a strange sort of dream; and I shall waken out of it by-and-by, and go back to the house. Why should I be surprised to see her, when she is my constant companion? And do you think I shall not know what to say?--I have talked to her all my life." But when they had reached the house, and were admitted, this half-hysterical courage had fled. "One moment, dearest; give me one moment," she said, at the foot of the stairs, as if her breath failed her, and she put her hand on his arm. "Now, Natalie," he whispered, "you must think of your mother as an invalid--not to be excited, you understand; there is to be no scene." "Yes, yes," she said, but she scarcely heard him. "Now go," he said, "and I will wait here." "No, I wish you to come," she said. "You ought to be alone with her." "I wish you to come," she repeated; and she took his hand. They went up-stairs; the door was wide open; a figure stood in the middle of the room. Natalie entered first; she was very white, that was all. It was the other woman who was trembling--trembling with anxious fears, and forgetful of every one of the English phrases she had learned. The girl at the door hesitated but for a moment. Breathless, wondering, she beheld this vision--worn as the face was, she recognized in it the features she had learned to love; and there were the dark and tender eyes she had so often held commune with when she was alone. It was only because she was so startled that she thus hesitated; the next instant she was in her mother's arms held tight there, her head against her bosom. Then the mother began, in her despair, "My--my daughter--you--do--know me?" But the girl, not looking up, murmured some few words in a language Brand did not understand; and at the sound of them the mother uttered a wild cry of joy, and drew her daughter closer to her, and laid her streaming, worn, sad face on the beautiful hair. They spoke together in that tongue; the sounds were soft and tender to the ear; perhaps it was the yearning of love that made them so.