When the padrona came to herself she called Frank Renton to her. It was not that she had fainted or become unconscious; but that, when a woman,--or a man either for that matter,--is suddenly called upon to sound the profoundest depths of suffering within her,--or his,--own being, a mist comes upon external matters, confusing place and fact, and above all, time, which goes fast or slow according to our consciousness. It might have been years, so far as she could tell, since she came in cheerfully from her walk, fearing no evil. She had been engaged in some awful struggle against her spiritual enemies, principalities and powers, such as she had never yet encountered; and all unprepared, unarmed for the conflict! She came to herself, lying back in her chair exhausted as if with an illness, without strength enough left to feel the full force of any calamity. She called Frank Renton to her, holding out her hand. ‘Sit down here and let me speak to you,’ she said. ‘I am to listen to what you have to say. And I will listen,--but not now. Such a thing had never entered into my mind. I thought the child was safe for years. I thought she was all mine,--my consolation. I have had so much to do, it seemed but fair I should have a consolation. But there is nothing fair in this world. And now it is you who have her heart, and not me,--and I don’t know you even. To be sure you are Laurie’s brother. Mr. Renton, if you will come back to me another time, when I have got a little used to it, I will hear everything you have to say.’ ‘Thanks!’ said Frank, not knowing what answer to make, being utterly confused in his own mind, and as much out of his depth in every way as a young man could be. And he would have taken the hand she held out to him in token of amity,--but Mrs. Severn was not equal to any such signs of friendship. ‘It will be for another time,’ she said, sitting upright in her chair, and drawing back a little. ‘If I had received any warning;--but you have only met two,--three times;--is that all?’ she said, with a sudden spasm in her voice. ‘And at Richmont,’ said Frank, divided between offence and humility. Alice had left the room again, and the two were alone. ‘And at Richmont,’ the padrona repeated with a heavy sigh. ‘I might have known. But you don’t know my child,’ she added, with sudden energy. ‘You have seen her pretty face and heard her music, and it is those you care for,--that is all. And there are others as pretty, and who play as well. You cannot know my child.’