"But why isn't mother here with me?"

"You--you didn't seem to want her," answered Henry, a cold sweat covering
his face under this terrible inquisition.

"Yes," said she, slowly, "I do remember your proposing she should come
and my not wanting her. I can't imagine why. I must have been out of my
head, as you say. Henry," she continued, regarding him with eyes of
sudden softness, "you must have been very good to me. Dr. Heidenhoff
could never make me forget that."

The next day her mother came. Henry met her at the station and explained
everything to her, so that she met Madeline already prepared for the
transformation, that is, as much prepared as the poor woman could be. The
idea was evidently more than she could take in. In the days that followed
she went about with a dazed expression on her face, and said very little.
When she looked at Henry, it was with a piteous mingling of gratitude and
appeal. She appeared to regard Madeline with a bewilderment that
increased rather than decreased from day to day. Instead of becoming
familiar with the transformation, the wonder of it evidently grew on her.
The girl's old, buoyant spirits, which had returned in full flow, seemed
to shock and pain her mother with a sense of incongruity she could not
get over. When Madeline treated her lover to an exhibition of her old
imperious tyrannical ways, which to see again was to him sweeter than the
return of day, her mother appeared frightened, and would try feebly to
check her, and address little deprecating remarks to Henry that were very
sad to hear. One evening, when he came in in the twilight, he saw
Madeline sitting with "her baby," as she had again taken to calling her
mother, in her arms, rocking and soothing her, while the old lady was
drying and sobbing on her daughter's bosom.