, more properly
speaking, a kind of loft--was lighted, or rather, rendered less dark by
a sort of half window, half skylight, which looked out upon a stack of
decayed and blackened chimneys, and so much sickly-looking sky as could
be seen through the undamaged panes, which were but few, for lumps of
rags, old stockings, and similar contrivances blocked up many a space
which had once been used to admit the light, while the glass still
remaining was robbed of its transparency by accumulated dirt. There was
neither stove nor fire-place of any kind. The walls, if they had ever
been whitened, had long since lost their original hue, and exhibited
instead every variety of damp discoloration. Neither chair nor table
were there--an old stool and a box were the only seats. In the corner
farthest from the light, and where the ceiling sloped down to the floor,
was the only thing that could claim the name of a bedstead. Low and
curtainless, its crazy, worm-eaten frame groaned and creaked ominously
under the tossings to and fro of the poor sufferer, who occupied the
mass of ragged coverings spread upon it. In the opposite corner was a
heap of mingled shavings, straw, and sacking, the present couch of the
aged tenant of this gloomy apartment. The box stood close at the bed's
head; there were bottles and a glass upon, it, which had plainly not
been used for medicinal purposes, as the faded odour of spirits,
distinguishable above the general rank close smell of the room, too
clearly testified. Across the floor, stained with numberless
abominations, Lady Oldfield made her shuddering way to the bed, on which
lay, tossing in the delirium of fever, her unhappy son. His trousers
and waistcoat were thrown across his feet; his hat lay on the floor near
them; there was no coat, for it had been pawned to gratify his craving
for the stimulant which had eaten away joy and peace, hope and heart.
Flinging herself on her knees beside the prostrate form, his mother
tried to raise him.

"O Frank, Frank, my darling boy," she cried, with a bitter outburst of
weeping; "look at me, speak to me; I'm your own mother. Don't you know
me? I'm come to take you home."

He suddenly sat up, and jerked the clothes from him. His eyes glittered
with an unnatural light, his cheeks were deeply flushed with fever heat;
his hair, that mother's pride in former days, waved wildly over his
forehead. How fair, how beautiful he looked even then!

"Ah, poor youn