woman, who, half blinded, half sickened, forgetful of all the ties that so lately had seemed inviolable, staggered down the stairs and out upon the little porch.
The stage had called; for the moment its voice seemed to fill the universe.
Only for that moment, though. With the next, another voice spoke to ber; it came with the rush of a tiny white figure, with the fluttering of yellow curls, with the pressure of soft little hands on the velvet folds of her garment. It said: "O mamma, are you going away in the pitty cloak and leave me?"
"My darling!"
Into those words, and through the convulsive embrace that strained the clinging figure to the mother's breast, there thrilled who knows what of shame, of remorse, of that all but divine impulse compared to which the transports of the artist are only as the shadow of a dream? It was the lightning-swift revulsion of a body freed from thralldom by some supreme recoil of spirit.
Five minutes later a man strolling leisurely along the opposite side of the street shot a casual glance at the empty piazza of the pretty Queen Anne cottage, halted for an instant, his eyes on a muslin-curtained window, then, turning, strode swiftly away into the gathering twilight. What he had seen was a common enough sight at this time, and on this street of homes,—simply a woman sitting quietly behind the sunset-gilded panes, her head bent against the shining head of a child.
But in that instant the man knew that he had received his answer, and that it was unchanging.
