“I will go,” she faltered, “I will go.  He must not know I have been here.  You—­you will not tell him?”

“No, I shall not tell him,” answered the Vicomtesse.

“And—­you will send word to me, Helene?”

“Yes, dear.”

Antoinette kissed her, and began to adjust her veil mechanically.  I looked on, bewildered by the workings of the feminine mind.  Why was she going?  The Vicomtesse gave me no hint.  But suddenly the girl’s arms fell to her sides, and she stood staring, not so much as a cry escaping her.  The bedroom doors had been opened, and between them was the tall figure of Nicholas Temple.  So they met again after many years, and she who had parted them had brought them together once more.  He came a step into the room, as though her eyes had drawn him so far.  Even then he did not speak her name.

“Go,” he said.  “Go, you must not stay here.  Go!”

She bowed her head.

“I was going,” she answered.  “I—­I am going.”

“But you must go at once,” he cried excitedly.  “Do you know what is in there?” and he pointed towards the bedroom.

“Yes, yes, I know,” she said, “I know.”

“Then go,” he cried.  “As it is you have risked too much.”

She lifted up her head and looked at him.  There was a new-born note in her voice, a tremulous note of joy in the midst of sorrow.  It was of her he was thinking!

“And you?” she said.  “You have come and remained.”

“She is my mother,” he answered.  “God knows it was the least I could have done.”

Twice she had changed before our eyes, and now we beheld a new and yet more startling transformation.  When she spoke there was no reproach in her voice, but triumph.  Antoinette undid her veil.

“Yes, she is your mother,” she answered; “but for many years she has been my friend.  I will go to her.  She cannot forbid me now.  Helene has been with her,” she said, turning to where the Vicomtesse stood watching her intently.  “Helene has been with her.  And shall I, who have longed to see her these many years, leave her now?”

“But you were going!” he cried, beside himself with apprehension at this new turning.  “You told me that you were going.”

Truly, man is born without perception.

“Yes, I told you that,” she replied almost defiantly.

“And why were you going?” he demanded.  Then I had a sudden desire to shake him.

Antoinette was mute.

“You yourself must find the answer to that question, Mr. Temple,” said the Vicomtesse, quietly.

He turned and stared at Helene, and she seemed to smile.  Then as his eyes went back, irresistibly, to the other, a light that was wonderful to see dawned and grew in them.  I shall never forget him as he stood, handsome and fearless, a gentleman still, despite his years of wandering and adventure, and in this supreme moment unselfish.  The wilful, masterful boy had become a man at last.