“This way, s’il vous plait, Mademoiselle Marguerite.  Pardonnez moi,” she added quickly, as she met Edith’s questioning glance, “Mademoiselle Miggie, as la petite Nina calls you.”

Once in Edith’s room, Mrs. Lamotte did not seem in haste to leave it, but continued talking in both English and French to Edith, who more than once, as the tones fell upon her ear, turned quickly to see if it were not some one she had met before.

“Je m’en irai,” Mrs. Lamotte said at last, as she saw that her presence was annoying Edith; and as the latter offered no remonstrance, she left the room, and Edith was alone with her confused thoughts.

Where was she?  What room was this, with the deep window seats, and that wide-mouthed fire-place?  Who was this woman that puzzled her so?  Edith kept asking herself these questions, but could find for them no satisfactory answer.  Struggle as she might, she felt more like a child returned to its home than like a stranger in a strange land.  Even the soft south wind, stealing through the open casement, and fanning her feverish cheek, had something familiar in its breath, as if it had stolen in upon her thus aforetime; and when across the fields, she heard the negroes’ song as they came homeward from their toil, she laid her head upon the window sill, and wept for the something which swept over her, something so sweet, so sad, and yet so indescribable.

Fearing lest the Frenchwoman should return, she made a hasty toilet, and then stole down to Nina, who, wholly exhausted with the violence of her emotions at meeting Edith, lay perfectly still upon her pillow, scarcely whiter than her own childish face, round which a ray of the setting sun was shining, encircling it with a halo of glorious beauty, and making her look like an angel of purity and love.  She did not attempt to speak as Edith came in, but her eyes smiled a welcome, and her thin, wasted fingers pointed to where Edith was to sit upon the bed beside her.  Arthur sat on the other side, holding one of Nina’s hands, and the other was given to Edith, who pressed it to her lips, while her tears dropped upon it like rain.  The sight of them disturbed the sick girl, and shaking her wealth of curls which, since Edith saw them, had grown thick and long, she whispered,

“Don’t, Miggie; tears are not for Nina; she’s so glad, for she is almost home.  She’ll go down to the river brink with your arms and Arthur boy’s around her.  Precious Miggie, nice Arthur.  Nina is happy to-night.”

Such were the disjointed sentences she kept whispering, while her eyes turned from Edith to Arthur and from Arthur back to Edith, resting longer there, and the expression of the face told of the unutterable joy within.  Softly the twilight shadows stole into the room, and the servants glided in and out, casting furtive and wondering glances at Edith, who saw nothing save the clear blue eyes shining upon her, even through the gathering darkness, and telling her of the love which could not be expressed.