My mother says that you are
her daughter. My father says that you are his child. They heard of
your love, your nursing, your sweetness. They want to know if you
will call them 'father, mother.' They love you, for you are one of
their own."
"At last, at last!" half sobbed the weary girl. "Oh, George, I am
so happy! _You_ are going to get well, and _they_ have come to us
at last."
"Yes, dear," he replied. Then with a half humorous yet wholly
pathetic smile flitting across his wan face, he added, "And my
mother has a little gift for you." He nodded then towards the
quaint old figure at the further side of the bed. His mother arose,
and, drawing from her bosom a tiny, russet-colored object, laid it
in Lydia's hand. It was a little moccasin, just three and a quarter
inches in length. "Its mate is lost," added the sick man, "but I
wore it as a baby. My mother says it is yours, and should have been
yours all these years."
For a second the two women faced each other, then Lydia sat down
abruptly on the bedside, her arms slipped about the older woman's
shoulders, and her face dropped quickly, heavily--at last on a
mother's breast.
George Mansion sighed in absolute happiness, then closed his eyes
and slept the great, strong, vitalizing sleep of reviving forces.
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