eart would break. Hers were the
wild, generous, irresistible emotions of youth. Lady Vargrave, perhaps,
had known them once; at least, she could sympathize with them now.

She strained her child to her bosom; she stroked back her hair, and
kissed her fondly, and spoke to her soothingly.

"Mother," sobbed Evelyn, "I could not sleep, I could not rest. Bless me
again, kiss me again; tell me that you love me--you cannot love me as I
do you; but tell me that I am dear to you; tell me you will regret me,
but not too much; tell me--" Here Evelyn paused, and could say no more.

"My best, my kindest Evelyn," said Lady Vargrave, "there is nothing on
earth I love like you. Do not fancy I am ungrateful."

"Why do you say ungrateful?--your own child,--your only child!" And
Evelyn covered her mother's face and hands with passionate tears and
kisses.

At that moment, certain it is that Lady Vargrave's heart reproached her
with not having, indeed, loved this sweet girl as she deserved. True, no
mother was more mild, more attentive, more fostering, more anxious for
a daughter's welfare; but Evelyn was right. The gushing fondness, the
mysterious entering into every subtle thought and feeling, which should
have characterized the love of such a mother to such a child, had been
to outward appearance wanting. Even in this present parting there had
been a prudence, an exercise of reasoning, that savoured more of duty
than love. Lady Vargrave felt all this with remorse; she gave way to
emotions new to her,--at least to exhibit; she wept with Evelyn, and
returned her caresses with almost equal fervour. Perhaps, too, she
thought at that moment of what love that warm nature was
susceptible; and she trembled for her future fate. It was as a full
reconciliation--that mournful hour--between feelings on either side,
which something mysterious seemed to have checked before; and that
last night the mother and the child did not separate,--the same couch
contained them: and when, worn out with some emotions which she could
not reveal, Lady Vargrave fell into the sleep of exhaustion, Evelyn's
arm was round her, and Evelyn's eyes watched her with pious and anxious
love as the gray morning dawned.

She left her mother still sleeping, when the sun rose, and went silently
down into the dear room below, and again busied herself in a thousand
little provident cares, which she wondered she had forgot before.

The carriages were at the door before the part