Her sands of life seamed ebbing fast,—­the end might not be distant; who could tell?  Why not go back—­give up the chase for the empty shadow of a name—­gather her baby to her bosom, and die, finding under an humble cenotaph the peace that this world denied her?

An intolerable yearning for the sight of her child, for the sound of her voice, broke over her like some irresistible wave bearing away the vehement protests of policy, the sterner barriers of vindictive purpose, and with a long shivering moan she clasped her hands and shut her eyes.

Impatiently the old man and his wife watched her countenance, confident that the decision would not long be delayed, trusting that the result would be a compliance with their wishes.  But hope began to fade as they noticed the gradual compression of her pale sorrowful mouth,—­the slow gathering of the brows that met in a heavy frown,—­the tightening of the clenched fingers,—­the greyish shadow that settled down on the face where renunciation was very legibly written.  The temptation had been fierce, but she put it aside, after bitter struggles to hush the wail of maternal longing; and before she spoke the two friends looked at each other and sighed.

Lifting her marble eyelids that seemed so heavy with their sweeping brown lashes, the invalid raised herself on one elbow, and said mournfully: 

“Not yet,—­oh! not yet.  I cannot give up the fight without one more struggle, even if it should prove that of death to me.  I must not return to America until I win what I came for; I will not.  But, my friends,—­for such I consider you, such you have proved,—­I will not selfishly prolong your exile; will not exact the sacrifice of your dearest wishes.  Go back home at once, and enjoy in peace the old age that deserves to be so happy.  I am going to Italy, hoping to regain my health,—­possibly to die; but still I shall go.  How long I may be detained, I know not, but meanwhile you shall return to those you love.”

“Idle words—­all idle words; not worth the waste of your breath.  Phoebe and I are homesick,—­we do not deny it, and we are sorry you can’t see things as we do; but since that night when I stumbled over you in the snow, and carried you to my own hearth, you have been to Phoebe and me—­as the child we lost; and unless you are ready to go home with us, we stay here.  You know we never will forsake you, especially now.  Hush,—­don’t speak, Phoebe.  Come away, wife; she is crying like a tired child.  I never saw her give way like that before.  It will do her good.  Every tear softens the spasms that wring her poor heart when she thinks of her baby.  In crossing the ocean she said that every rolling wave seemed to her a grave, in which she was burying her blue-eyed baby.  Let her alone to-day; keep out of her sight.  To-morrow we will arrange to quit Paris, I hope for ever.”

CHAPTER XVI.

“Mrs. Palma, if you are at leisure, I should like to see you for a moment.”