Evelyn introduced the two ladies, and her mother, being assured that the cup contained nothing unpleasant to the taste, quickly swallowed its contents, then lay back quietly upon her pillows, still keeping fast hold of her daughter’s hand, while Grandma Elsie, giving the cup to a servant to carry away, resumed her easy chair on the farther side of the room—­near enough to be ready to render assistance should it be needed, yet not so near as to interfere with any private talk between the long separated mother and daughter—­and her grandchildren again gathered about her.  But they seemed awed into silence by the presence of the stranger invalid, whom they gazed upon with pitying curiosity, while her attention seemed equally occupied with them.

“Your uncle’s children?” she asked of Evelyn in a tone scarcely louder than a whisper.

“Yes, mamma.  Edward, the eldest, you saw when he was a mere baby boy.  Eric, the next, is papa’s namesake.  The eldest of the little girls—­she is in her fifth year—­is Elsie Alicia, named for her two grandmothers; we call her Alie.  And the youngest—­that two-year-old darling—­we call Vi.  She is named for her aunt, Mrs. Raymond.”

“And Mrs. Travilla lives here with her daughter?”

“No; she is paying a visit of a few days, as she often does since her daughter-in-law, Aunt Zoe, has undertaken the most of the housekeeping at Ion.”

“She certainly looks very young to be mother and grandmother to so many,” sighed the invalid, catching sight of her own sallow, prematurely wrinkled face reflected in a large mirror on the opposite side of the room.  “But she has had an easy life, surrounded by kind, affectionate, sympathising friends, while I—­miserable woman that I am—­have been worried, brow-beaten, robbed, till nothing is left me but ill-health and grinding poverty.”

“Mother, mother dear, don’t talk so while I am left you and have enough to keep us both, with care and economy,” entreated Evelyn in a voice half choked with sobs.  “It will be joy to me to share with you and do all I can to make your last days comfortable and happy.”

“Then you haven’t lost all your love for your mother in our years of separation?”

“No, no indeed!” answered Evelyn earnestly.  But there the conversation ended for the time, Mrs. Leland returning with the promised refreshment.  It seemed to give some strength to the invalid, and after taking it she was, by her own request, assisted to her room, an apartment opening into that of her daughter, with whose good help she was soon made ready for her bed, the most comfortable she had lain upon for weeks or months, she remarked, as she stretched her tired limbs upon it.

“I am very glad you find it so, mother dear,” said Evelyn.  “And now, if you like, I will unpack your trunks and arrange their contents in wardrobe, bureau drawers, and closet.”

“There is no hurry about that, and isn’t that your supper bell I hear?”