Mrs. Brentano was sitting in a low chair, with her elbows on her knees, her face hidden in her palms; and in her lap lay paper and pencil, while a sealed letter had fallen on the ground beside her.  At the sound of the opening door, she lifted her head, and tears dripped upon the paper.  In her faded flannel dressing-gown, with tresses of black hair straggling across her shoulders, she presented a picture of helpless mental and physical woe, which painted itself indelibly on the panels of her daughter’s heart.

“Why did you not wait until I came home?  The exertion of getting up always fatigues you.”

“You staid so long—­and I am so uncomfortable in that wretchedly hard bed.  What detained you?”

“I went to see the Doctor, because I am unwilling to start away, without having asked his advice; and he has prescribed some new medicine which you will find in this bottle.  The directions are marked on the label.  Now I will put things in order, and try my hands on that refractory bed.”

“What did the Doctor say about me?”

“Nothing new; but he is confident that you can be cured in time, if we will only be patient and obedient.  He promised to see you in the morning.”

She stripped the bed of its covering, shook bolster and pillows; turned over the mattress, and beat it vigorously; then put on fresh sheets, and adjusted the whole comfortably.

“Now mother, turn your head, and let me comb and brush and braid all this glossy black satin, to keep it from tangling while I am away.  What a pity you did not dower your daughter with part of it, instead of this tawny mane of mine, which is a constant affront to my fastidious artistic instincts.  Please keep still a moment.”

She unwrapped the tissue paper that covered her flowers, and holding her hands behind her, stepped in front of the invalid.

“Dear mother, shut your eyes.  There—! of what does that remind you?  The pergola—­with great amber grape clusters—­and white stars of jasmine shining through the leaves?  All the fragrance of Italy sleeps in the thurible of this Grand-Duke.”

“How delicious!  Ah, my extravagant child! we cannot afford such luxuries now.  The perfume recalls so vividly the time when Bertie—­”

A sob cut short the sentence.  Beryl pinned the flowers at her mother’s throat, kissed her cheek, and kneeling before her, crossed her arms on the invalid’s lap, resting there the noble head, with its burnished crown of reddish bronze braids.

“Mother dear, humor my childish whim.  In defiance of my wishes and judgment, and solely in obedience to your command, I am leaving you for the first time, on a bitterly painful and humiliating mission.  To-night, let me be indeed your little girl once more.  My heart brings me to your knees, to say my prayers as of yore, and now while I pray, lay your dear pretty hands on my head.  It will seem like a parting benediction; a veritable Nunc dimmitas.”