"Come in, Philip," she said. "I want you to meet my mother."

He entered into the warm glow of the room. Slightly bending over a
table stood the slender form of a woman, her back toward him.
Without seeing her face he was astonished at her striking
resemblance to Josephine--the same slim, beautiful figure, the
same thick, glowing coils of hair crowning her head--but darker.
She turned toward him, and he was still more amazed by this
resemblance. And yet it was a resemblance which he could not at
first define. Her eyes were very dark instead of blue. Her heavy
hair, drawn smoothly back from her forehead, was of the deep brown
that is almost black in the shadow. Slimness had given her the
appearance of Josephine's height. She was still beautiful. Hair,
eyes, and figure gave her at first glance an appearance of almost
girlish loveliness.

And then, all at once, the difference swept upon him. She was like
Josephine as he had seen her in that hour of calm despair when she
had come to him at the canoe. Home-coming had not brought her
happiness. Her face was colourless, her cheeks slightly hollowed,
in her eyes he saw now the lustreless glow which frequently comes
with a fatal sickness. He was smiling and holding out his hand to
her even as he saw these things, and at his side he heard
Josephine say:

"Mother, this is Philip."

The hand she gave him was small and cold. Her voice, too, was
wonderfully like Josephine's.