Mary Melville and her son gazed on the _debutante_--they had no
word, no look for each other: for they recognised in her voice the
tones of a grief of which long ago they heard the prelude--and every
note found its echo in the bishop's inmost heart.
"Come away! let us go home! Duncan, this is no place for us--for
_you_. It is disgrace to be here," was the mother's passionate plea,
when at last Rosalie disappeared, and other forms stood in her
place.
"We will stay and save her," was the answer, spoken with tears and
trembling, by the man for whom, in many a quiet home, prayers in
that very hour ascended. "She is mine _now_, and no earthly
consideration or power shall divide us."
And looking for a moment in her son's face steadfastly, the lady
turned away sighing and tearful, for she knew that she must yield
then, and she had fears for the future.
A half-hour passed and the star of the night reappeared, resplendent
in beauty, triumphing in hope;--again her marvellous voice was
raised, not with the bitter cry of despair that was hopeless, but
glad and gay, angelic in its joy.
Again the mother's eyes were turned on him beside her--and a light
was on that pale forehead--a smile on that calm face--a gladness in
those eyes--such as she had not seen there in long, long years; but
though she looked with a mother's love upon the one who stood the
admiration of all eyes, crowned with the glory-crown of perfection
in her art, she could not with Duncan hope.
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