erwise. By something little short of
miracle, where food was scant and medicine scarce, the poor emaciated
mother gradually gained strength--that long, low fever left her, health
came again upon her cheek, her travail passed over prosperously, the
baby too thrived, (oh, more than health to mothers!) and Maria Clements
found herself one morning strong enough to execute a purpose she had
long most anxiously designed. "Henry was wrong to think so harshly of
her father. She knew he would not spurn her away: he must be kind, for
she loved him dearly still. Wicked as it doubtless was of her [dear
innocent girl] to have done any thing contrary to his wishes, she was
sure he would relieve her in her utmost need. He could not, could not be
so hard as poor dear Henry made him." So, taking advantage of her
husband's absence during one of his literary pilgrimages, she took her
long-forgotten bonnet and shawl, and, with the baby in her arms, flew on
the wings of love, duty, penitence, and affection to her dear old home
in Finsbury square.

CHAPTER XV.

THE FATHER FINDS HIS HEART FOR EVER.

He had been at death's door, sinking out of life, because he had nothing
now to live for. He still was very weak in bed, faint, and worn, and
white, propped up with pillows--that poor, bereaved old man. Ever since
Lady Dillaway's most quiet death he had felt alone in the world. True,
while she lived she had seemed to him a mere tranquil trouble, a useless
complacent piece of furniture, often in his way; but now that she was
dead, what a void was left where she had been--mere empty space, cold
and death-like. She had left him quite alone.

Then again--of John, poor John, he would think, and think
continually--not about the little vulgar pock-marked man of 'change, the
broker, the rogue, the coward--but of a happy curly child, with
sparkling eyes--a merry-hearted, ruddy little fellow, romping with his
sister--ay, in this very room; here is the identical China vase he
broke, all riveted up; there is the corner where he would persist to
nestle his dormice. Ah, dear child! precious child! where is he
now?--Where and what indeed! Alas, poor father! had you known what I do,
and shall soon inform the world, of that bad man's awful end, one more,
one fiercest pang would have tormented you: but Heaven spared that pang.
Nevertheless, the bitter contrast of the child and of the man had made
him very wretched--and to the widower's solitude added th