"He's gone!" murmured Stanton, rising. A dignity had come to her.
"Dead! And we knew nothing of him--not his real name--nor his place
... But even Benton could not keep him from dying like an English
gentleman."
She took Allie by the hand, led her out of the parlor and across the
hall into a bedroom. Then she faced Allie, wonderingly, with all a
woman's sympathy, and something else that Allie sensed as a sweet
and poignant wistfulness.
"Are you--Neale's sweetheart?" she asked, very low.
"Oh--please--find him--for me!" sobbed Allie.
The tenderness in this woman's voice and look and touch was what
Allie needed more than anything, and it made her a trembling child.
How strangely, hesitatingly, with closing eyes, this woman reached
to fold her in gentle arms. What a tumult Allie felt throbbing in
the full breast where she laid her head.
"Allie Lee! ... and he thinks you dead," she murmured, brokenly. "I
will bring him--to you."
When she released Allie years and shadows no longer showed in her
face. Her eyes were tear-wet and darkening; her lips were tremulous.
At that moment there was something beautiful and terrible about her.
But Allie could not understand.
"You stay here," she said. "Be very quiet ... I will bring Neale."
Opening the door, she paused on the threshold, to glance down the
hall first, and then back to Allie.
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