No sooner did the two women stand in the light and warmth of the kitchen-hearth, than the elder fell on the neck of the younger, and kissed the cold, rain-washed face of her child, with a love grown fierce by years of hopeless hope and unrequited longing.  Once again those arms, thin and weak with age, grew strong; and in the resurrection of a mighty passion, all the old womanhood and motherhood of the parent renewed their youth, and filled out the shrunken and decrepit form until she stood majestic in the strength of heaven.  To those who had been wont to see Amanda’s mother bent and crushed with years and sorrow, the woman that now stood in the firelight would not have been recognised as Mrs. Stott.  Once the fairest and most lithesome girl in Rehoboth, the pride of the village, the sought of many suitors, the proud wife of Sam Stott of th’ Clowes, and the still prouder mother of Amanda, who matched her alike in beauty and in sprightliness, she had long been a prey to the sling and arrows of outrageous fortune.  Years had played sad havoc with her, her money taking wings, her husband dying, and her last hope failing in the hour of need.  Now she was herself again under the renewing hand of love.

As soon as Amanda recovered from the shock of her mother’s appearance, and felt the warmth of her welcome, she gently, yet determinately, released herself and cried: 

‘Durnd, mother, durnd!  I’m noan come wom’ to be kissed nor forgiven.  I’ve nobbud come wom’ to dee.’

‘What saysto, lass?’ exclaimed Mrs. Stott.  ‘Come wom’ to dee?  Nay, thaa’s bin deead long enugh a’ready; it’s time thaa begun to live, and thank God thaa’s come back to live at wom’.’

The girl shook her head, a stony stare in her eye, her mouth drawn into a hard and immobile line.  And then, in cold tones, she continued: 

‘Nay, mother; I’ve hed enugh o’ life.  I tell thee I’ve come wom’ to dee.’

‘Amanda,’ sobbed the mother, ’if thaa taks on like that thaa’ll kill me.  Thaa’s welly done for me a’ready, but I con live naa thaa’s come back, if thaa’ll nobbud live an’ o’, and live wi’ me.  Sit thee daan.  There’s th’ owd cheer (chair) waiting for thee.  It’s thi cheer, Amanda; awlus wor, and awlus will be.  Sit thee daan.  It looks some onely (lonely) baat thee.’

There stood Amanda’s chair, the chair of her girlhood, the chair in which she had sung through the long winter nights, in which her deft fingers had wrought needlework, the envy of Rehoboth.  The old arms mutely opened as though to welcome her; the rockers, too, seemed ready to yield that oscillation so seductive to the jaded frame.  And the trimmings! and the cushion! the same old pattern, somewhat faded, perhaps, but as warm and cosy as in the days of yore.  It was the chair, too, at which she used to kneel, the chair that had so often caught the warm breath from her lips as she had whispered, ‘Our Father, which art in heaven.’  But had she not forfeited her right to that chair?  Of that throne of sanctity she felt she was now no longer queen.  And again, as her mother pressed her to take her appointed place, she shook her head, her heart steeled with pride and shame, the hardest of all bonds to break when imprisoning a human soul.