good faith--these things he prized before everything.
In you, in one of your birth, he looked to find them in perfection.
Hubert, I stood shamed before him.'

The young man breathed hard, as if in physical pain. His eyes were fixed
in a wide absent gaze. Mrs. Eldon had lost all the severity of her face;
the profound sorrow of a pure and noble nature was alone to be read
there now.

'What,' she continued--'what is this class distinction upon which we
pride ourselves? What does it mean, if not that our opportunities lead
us to see truths to which the eyes of the poor and ignorant are blind?
Is there nothing in it, after all--in our pride of birth and station?
That is what people are saying nowadays: you yourself have jested to me
about our privileges. You almost make me dread that you were right. Look
back at that man, whom I came to honour as my own father. He began
life as a toiler with his hands. Only a fortnight ago he was telling
me stories of his boyhood, of seventy years since. He was without
education; his ideas of truth and goodness he had to find within his own
heart. Could anything exceed the noble simplicity of his respect for me,
for you boys? We were poor, but it seemed to him that we had from nature
what no money could buy. He was wrong; his faith misled him. No, not
wrong with regard to all of us; my boy Godfrey was indeed all that he
believed. But think of himself; what advantage have we over him? I know
no longer what to believe. Oh, Hubert!'

He left his chair and walked to a more distant part of the room, where
he was beyond the range of lamp and firelight. Standing here, he pressed
his hand against his side, still breathing hard, and with difficulty
suppressing a groan.

He came a step or two nearer.

'Mother,' he said, hurriedly, 'I am still far from well. Let me leave
you: speak to me again to-morrow.'

Mrs. Eldon made an effort to rise, looking anxiously into the gloom
where he stood. She was all but standing upright--a thing she had not
done for a long time--when Hubert sprang towards her, seizing her hands,
then supporting her in his arms. Her self-command gave way at length,
and she wept.

Hubert placed her gently in the chair and knelt beside her. He could
find no words, but once or twice raised his face and kissed her.

'What caused your illness?' she asked, speaking as one wearied with
suffering. She lay back, and her eyes were closed.

'I cannot say,' he answered. 'Do not speak of