dull, lack-lustre eyes, and all the hard realities of utilitarian life
were become weary, flat, and stale. Sir Thomas was a miserable man--a
bereaved old man--who nevertheless clung to what was left, and struggled
not to grieve for what was lost: there was a terrible strife going on
secretly within him, dragging him this way and that: a little, lightning
flash of good had been darted by Omnipotence right through the
stone-built caverns of his heart, and was smouldering a concentred flame
within its innermost hollow; a small soft-skinned seed had been dropped
by the Father of Spirits into that iron-bound soil, and it was swelling
day by day under the case-hardened surface, gradually with gentle
violence, despite of all the locks and gates, and bolts and bars, a
silent enemy had somehow crept within the fortress of his feelings,
ready at any unguarded moment to fling the portals open. The rock had a
sealed fountain leaping within it, as an infant in the womb. The poor
old man, the worldly cold old man, was giving way.

Happy misery! for his breaking heart revealed a glorious jewel at the
core. Oh, sorrow beyond price! for natural affections, bursting up amid
these unsunned snows, were a hot-spring to that Iceland soul. Oh,
bitter, bitter penitence most blest! which broke down the money-proud
man, which bruised and kneaded him, humbled, smote, and softened him,
and made him come again a little child--a loving, yearning, little
child--a child with pity in its eyes, with prayer upon its tongue, with
generous affection in its heart. "Oh, Maria! precious, cast-off child,
where art thou, where art thou, where art thou--starving? And canst
thou, blessed God, forgive? And will not thy great mercy bring her to me
yet again? Oh, what a treasury of love have I mis-spent; what riches of
the Heart, what only truest wealth, have I, poor prodigal, been
squandering! Unhappy son--unhappy father of the perjured, heartless,
miserable John! Wo is me! Where art thou, dear child, my pure and best
Maria?"

We may well guess, far too well, how it was that dear Maria came not
near him. She had been, prior to confinement, very, very ill: nigh to
death: the pangs of travail threatened to have seized upon her all too
soon, when wasted with sorrow, and weakened by want. She lay, long
weeks, battling for life, in her little back parlour, at Islington,
tended night and day by her kind, good husband.

But did she not often (you will say) urge him, e