the floor, and waited for her to weep herself out. She leaned
her head on his shoulder and sobbed broken-heartedly. She said not a
word, she made no attempt to scold; but the desolation of her tears was
overwhelming. It lasted some time--too long for Rowland's courage. He
had stood silent, wishing simply to appear very respectful; but the
elation that was mentioned a while since had utterly ebbed, and he found
his situation intolerable. He walked away--not, perhaps, on tiptoe, but
with a total absence of bravado in his tread.

The next day, while he was at home, the servant brought him the card of
a visitor. He read with surprise the name of Mrs. Hudson, and hurried
forward to meet her. He found her in his sitting-room, leaning on the
arm of her son and looking very pale, her eyes red with weeping, and her
lips tightly compressed. Her advent puzzled him, and it was not for
some time that he began to understand the motive of it. Roderick's
countenance threw no light upon it; but Roderick's countenance, full of
light as it was, in a way, itself, had never thrown light upon anything.
He had not been in Rowland's rooms for several weeks, and he immediately
began to look at those of his own works that adorned them. He lost
himself in silent contemplation. Mrs. Hudson had evidently armed herself
with dignity, and, so far as she might, she meant to be impressive.
Her success may be measured by the fact that Rowland's whole attention
centred in the fear of seeing her begin to weep. She told him that she
had come to him for practical advice; she begged to remind him that she
was a stranger in the land. Where were they to go, please? what were
they to do? Rowland glanced at Roderick, but Roderick had his back
turned and was gazing at his Adam with the intensity with which he might
have examined Michael Angelo's Moses.

"Roderick says he does n't know, he does n't care," Mrs. Hudson said;
"he leaves it entirely to you."

Many another man, in Rowland's place, would have greeted this
information with an irate and sarcastic laugh, and told his visitors
that he thanked them infinitely for their confidence, but that, really,
as things stood now, they must settle these matters between themselves;
many another man might have so demeaned himself, even if, like Rowland,
he had been in love with Mary Garland and pressingly conscious that
her destiny was also part of the question. But Rowland swallowed all
hilarity and all sarcasm, and let