“Go home!” continued Elsie, with a look of sudden affright; “he is mine, God gave him to me first, and when he was lost the night-angel brought him back to me. You are not his mother! It is my blood that reddens his cheek, my breath that heaves his bosom, my soul that looks through his eyes. Go home, the boy is mine,—mine, I tell you, mine!” Elsie almost shrieked these words out, in her eagerness to drive the pale young widow away; and she bent over the child fiercely as an eagle broods over its young. The widow drew timidly forward, with her eyes, full of crushed tears, bent upon the child. “Go home!” commanded Elsie, in wrath. “Go home! You are _not_ his mother!” “But I love him. He is mine. He never knew any mother but me,” pleaded the young woman, while the tears started in large drops from her eyes, and her hands clasped themselves as if eager to implore silence and mercy from the maniac. “No,” answered Elsie, and her black eyes kindled with fiery light to their depths; “no, he is mine. When the blood reaches his heart, mine beats quicker; when it stops, I shall perish; he is my soul, lost years and years ago, which the night-angel has brought back. Go away, go away!” The poor young woman looked around for some one to aid or comfort her. Catharine came forward. “Yes,” she said, gently, “the night-angel knows that Elsie is the child’s mother; but he is so young and must be cared for. This is his nurse, who has taken charge of him for you. It is she who told the night-angel when he was ready to come back.” “Oh! are you sure?” questioned Elsie. “She does not claim to be his mother?” “No, only his mamma. You don’t mind what he calls her, if it is not mother.” “You are sure, quite sure?” “Quite sure. Wake him and see if he calls her anything but mamma.” Elsie smiled. “Wake him, oh, yes, I know how!” She bent her pale lips down to the rosy mouth of the child, leaving a timid kiss upon it. “It makes my heart beat,” she said, drawing a deep breath, and glancing furtively up at the portraits. “They are jealous. Yes, they know what it is to be jealous now.” CHAPTER XLVII. THREE HEARTS GO OUT TO LITTLE EDDIE. Eddie only turned his beautiful head on the cushion, and went to sleep again, with soft murmurs and a deeper breath. “Shall I kiss him once more?” inquired Elsie, lifting her large, pleading eyes to Catharine. “You don’t think it troubles him?” “No, he will awake next time.” Elsie bent down and pressed her lips like a burning seal upon the child’s forehead, which flushed crimson beneath the pressure. He awoke with a faint struggle, and starting up, began to rub his eyes with both hands. “Edward—Eddie!” exclaimed the widow. The child scrambled up from the cushions as if to run toward her. “Mamma, my own mamma!” Elsie’s face darkened like a thunder-cloud; her pale lips began to quiver, and she made a dart forward with her hand.