or as he watched the glorious rising of the dawn: not even at
the table, where he sat carousing with friends, or at the theatre yonder,
where he tried to fancy that other eyes were brighter than hers. Brighter
eyes there might be, and faces more beautiful, but none so dear--no voice
so sweet as that of his beloved mistress, who had been sister, mother,
goddess to him during his youth--goddess now no more, for he knew of her
weaknesses; and by thought, by suffering, and that experience it brings,
was older now than she; but more fondly cherished as woman perhaps than
ever she had been adored as divinity.

What is it? Where lies it? the secret which makes one little hand the
dearest of all? Whoever can unriddle that mystery? Here she was, her son
by his side, his dear boy. Here she was, weeping and happy. She took his
hand in both hers; he felt her tears. It was a rapture of reconciliation.

"Here comes Squaretoes," says Frank. "Here's Tusher."

Tusher, indeed, now appeared, creaking on his great heels. Mr. Tom had
divested himself of his alb or surplice, and came forward habited in his
cassock and great black periwig. How had Harry Esmond ever been for a
moment jealous of this fellow?

"Give us thy hand, Tom Tusher," he said. The chaplain made him a very low
and stately bow. "I am charmed to see Captain Esmond," says he. "My lord
and I have read the _Reddas incolumem precor_, and applied it, I am sure,
to you. You come back with Gaditanian laurels: when I heard you were bound
thither, I wished, I am sure, I was another Septimius. My lord viscount,
your lordship remembers _Septimi, Gades aditure mecum?_"

"There's an angle of earth that I love better than Gades, Tusher," says
Mr. Esmond. "'Tis that one where your reverence hath a parsonage, and
where our youth was brought up."

"A house that has so many sacred recollections to me," says Mr. Tusher
(and Harry remembered how Tom's father used to flog him there)--"a house
near to that of my respected patron, my most honoured patroness, must ever
be a dear abode to me. But, madam, the verger waits to close the gates on
your ladyship."

"And Harry's coming home to supper. Huzzay! huzzay!" cries my lord.
"Mother, shall I run home and bid Beatrix put her ribbons on? Beatrix is a
maid of honour, Harry. Such a fine set-up minx!"

"Your heart was never in the Church, Harry," the widow said, in her sweet
low tone, as they walked away together. (Now, it seemed they had never