mended--old kid gloves with fur about the wrists. She drew them off, and
took my hands and made me sit beside her, and looked at me for a while
with all her might in silence.

At length she said: "Gogo mio, I know all you have been through by the
touch of your hands. Does the touch of mine tell you nothing?"

It told me nothing but her huge love for me, which was all I cared for,
and I said so.

She sighed, and said: "I was afraid it would be like this. The old
circuit is broken, and can't be restored--not yet!"

We tried again hard; but it was useless.

She looked round and about and up at the tree-tops, everywhere; and then
at me again, with great wistfulness, and shivered, and finally began to
speak, with hesitation at first, and in a manner foreign to her. But
soon she became apparently herself, and found her old swift smile and
laugh, her happy slight shrugs and gestures, and quaint polyglot
colloquialisms (which I omit, as I cannot always spell them); her
homely, simple ways of speech, her fluent, magnetic energy, the winning
and sympathetic modulations of her voice, its quick humorous changes
from grave to gay--all that made everything she said so suggestive of
all she wanted to say besides.

"Gogo, I knew you would come. I _wished_ it! How dreadfully you have
suffered! How thin you are! It shocks me to see you! But that will not
be any more; we are going to change all that.