d
and jam, but had looked gloomy all the rest of the evening: because,
like a dog in a strange place, he refused to eat. His little heart was
full, and his eyes, swimming with tears, were turned at every moment
to the door. But he did not show the violent grief that might have been
expected. His very desolation, amidst the unfamiliar faces, awed and
chilled him. But when Martha took him to bed, and undressed him, and he
knelt down to say his prayers, and came to the words, "Pray God bless
dear mamma, and make me a good child," his heart could contain its load
no longer, and he sobbed with a passion that alarmed the good-natured
servant. She had been used, however, to children, and she soothed and
caressed him, and told him of all the nice things he would do, and the
nice toys he would have; and at last, silenced, if not convinced, his
eyes closed, and, the tears yet wet on their lashes, he fell asleep.

It had been arranged that Catherine should return home that night by a
late coach, which left the town at twelve. It was already past eleven.
Mrs. Morton had retired to bed; and her husband, who had, according to
his wont, lingered behind to smoke a cigar over his last glass of brandy
and water, had just thrown aside the stump, and was winding up his
watch, when he heard a low tap at his window. He stood mute and alarmed,
for the window opened on a back lane, dark and solitary at night, and,
from the heat of the weather, the iron-cased shutter was not yet closed;
the sound was repeated, and he heard a faint voice. He glanced at
the poker, and then cautiously moved to the window, and looked
forth,--"Who's there?"

"It is I--it is Catherine! I cannot go without seeing my boy. I must see
him--I must, once more!"

"My dear sister, the place is shut up--it is impossible. God bless me,
if Mrs. Morton should hear you!"

"I have walked before this window for hours--I have waited till all
is hushed in your house, till no one, not even a menial, need see the
mother stealing to the bed of her child. Brother, by the memory of our
own mother, I command you to let me look, for the last time, upon my
boy's face!"

As Catherine said this, standing in that lonely street--darkness and
solitude below, God and the stars above--there was about her a majesty
which awed the listener. Though she was so near, her features were
not very clearly visible; but her attitude--her hand raised aloft--the
outline of her wasted but still commanding