"Why, mother," said she, "what can you mean? What do you want to
know?"
"Your first recollection, dear?" returned Mrs. Claire, with an
assuring smile, although her heart was full, and it required the most
active self-control to prevent her feelings from becoming manifest in
her voice.
"Well, let me see! The first? The first? I was playing on the floor
with a dear little baby? It was our Edie, wasn't it?"
"Yes--so far your memory is correct. I remember the time to which you
refer as perfectly as if but a week had passed. Now, dear, try if you
can recall any thing beyond that."
"Beyond that, mother? Oh, why do you ask? You make me feel so
strangely. Can it be that some things I have thought to be only the
memory of dreams, are indeed realities?"
"What are those things, my child?"
"I have a dim remembrance of a pale, but beautiful woman who often
kissed and caressed me--of being in a sick-room--of a strange
confusion in the house--of riding in a carriage with father to a
funeral. Mother! is there any thing in this; if so, what does it
mean?"
"That woman, Fanny," said Mrs. Claire, speaking with forced composure,
"was your mother."
The face of the young girl grew instantly pale; her lips parted;
and she gasped for breath. Then falling forward on the bosom of Mrs.
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