“Then it’s a lie that’s come from hell itself,” she replied—­“Oh, if I was only up and strong as I was, let me see the man or woman that durst say so.  My mother! to become unnatural and treacherous, an’ I have a mother—­ha, ha—­oh, how often have I thought of this—­thought of what a girl I would be if I was to have a mother—­how good I would be too—­how kind to her—­how I would love her, an’ how she would love me, an’ then my heart would sink when I’d think of home—­ay, an’ when Nelly would spake cruelly an’ harshly to me I’d feel as if I could kill her, or any one.”

Her eye here caught Mave Sullivan’s, and she again started.

“What is this?” she exclaimed; “am I still in the shed?  Mave Sullivan!—­help me up, Biddy.”

“I am here, dear Sarah,” replied the gentle girl—­“I am here; keep yourself quiet and don’t attempt to sit up; you’re not able to do it.”

The composed and serene aspect of Mave, and the kind, touching tones of her voice, seemed to operate favorably upon her, and to aid her in collecting her confused and scattered thoughts into something like order.

“Oh, dear Mave,” said she, “what is this?  What has happened?  Isn’t there something wrong?  I’m confused.  Have I a mother?  Have I a livin’ mother, that will love me?”

Her large eyes suddenly sparkled with singular animation as she asked the last question, and Mave thought it was the most appropriate moment to make the mother known to her.

“You have, dear Sarah, an’ here she is waitin’ to clasp you to her heart, an’ give you her blessin’.”

“Where?” she exclaimed, starting up in her bed, as if in full health; “my mother! where?—­where?”

She held her arms out towards her, for Mave had again assumed the mother’s station at her bedside, and the latter stood at a little distance.  On seeing her daughter’s arms widely extended towards her, she approached her, but whether checked by Sarah’s allusion to her conduct, or from a wish to spare her excitement, or from some natural coldness of disposition, it is difficult to say, she did it with so little appearance of the eager enthusiasm that the heart of the latter expected, and with a manner so singularly cool and unexcited, that Sarah, whose feelings were always decisive and rapid as lightning, had time to recognize her features as Hanlon’s aunt whom she had seen and talked to before.

But that was not all; she perceived not in her these external manifestations of strong affection and natural tenderness for which her own heart yearned almost convulsively; there was no sparkling glance—­no precipitate emotion—­no gushing of tears—­no mother’s love—­in short, nothing of what her noble and loving spirit could, recognize as kindred to itself, and to her warm and impulsive heart.  The moment—­the glance—­that sought and found not what it looked for—­were decisive:  the arms that had been extended remained extended still, but the spirit of that attitude was changed, as was that eager and tumultuous delight which had just flashed from her countenance.  Her thoughts, as we said, were quick, and in almost a moment’s time she appeared to be altogether a different individual.