old chap, I didn't think you had the grit in you--I
didn't, truly."

"Then you approve?"

"It is the only thing to be done; she must hear it, sooner or later, and
no one can tell it to her as you can."

"All right; I'll go to her before my courage fails me."

George left the room without even saying good-by to his friend.

When he left the house, he turned round and saw the man whom he had
noticed watching him the day before at Waterloo Station.

"I'll be ready for you soon, my friend, but not quite yet," muttered the
young man.

He walked quickly--the man followed him at a respectful distance.

George let himself into his mother's house with a latch-key. He ran up
to the little sitting room. Agnes was bending with red eyes over a
kettle which was boiling on the fire. She was making a cup of tea for
her mother, who had just awakened. Katie was cutting bread and butter,
and Phil and Marjory were standing by the window. Marjory was saying to
Phil, "I 'spect George will be turning the corner and coming home in a
minute."

"Hush!" whispered Phil: "hush, Marjory! George isn't coming back any
more."

At this moment the door was opened, and George came in. Marjory gave
Phil a scornful glance, and flew to her big brother. Katie flung down
the piece of bread she was buttering and Agnes turned from the fire.
George put out his hand to ward them all off.

"Where's mother?" he asked.

"She's awake, but she has been very ill," began Agnes. "Oh, George,
George, do be careful; where are you going?"

"To my mother," answered the young man. "Don't let anyone come with
me--I want to be alone with her."

He went straight into the bedroom as he spoke, and shut the door behind
him.

Mrs. Staunton was lying propped up high by pillows. The powerful opiate
had soothed her, but the image of George still filled all her horizon.
When she saw him come into the room, she smiled, and stretched out her
weak arms to clasp him. He came over, knelt by her, and, taking her hot
hands, covered his face with them.

"You've come back, my boy!" she said. "I'm not very well to-day, but
I'll soon be better. Why, what is it, George? What are you doing? You
are wetting my hands. You--you are crying? What is it, George?"

"I have come back to tell you something, mother. I'm not what you think
me--I'm a scoundrel, a rascal. I'm bad, I'm not good. I--I've been
deceiving you--I'm a thief."

"Hush!" interrupted Mrs. Staunton. "Come a little clo