t of adoration, as she dropped to her knees beside the woman's chair, "Ma mère, I have come back."
"Dear one! Ma petite!" exclaimed the other in liquid southern accents, reaching out a delicate, trembling hand, which the girl caught and kissed devotedly. "We have longed for you. But we knew you would come! Let me see your face, child."
Joyce turned it upward and remained very still while the other lightly touched brow, eyes, lips, and chin, in a swift, assured fashion.
"Ah, you are truly the same little Joyce. There is the breadth between the eyes like an innocent child's, the straight, firm little nose like a Greek outline, the full curved lips--do you still pout when angry, chèrie?--and that square, decided turn to the chin, more apparent than ever. You have grown, Joyce; you are a woman now."
"Yes, mother, but still a baby to you, and I want always to keep the old name for you, no matter how I grow. Ma mère, you have grown younger, and are more beautiful tha