ly turned shy or overtaken by a sense of delicacy, backed away
sheepishly and left her alone with her son.

"Put on your shirt," said she, and again her hand went out to help
him. "I want you to take a walk with me."

Charles nodded. "Have you seen Sam?"

"Yes. You may kiss me now, dear--there's nobody looking. I left him
almost an hour ago: his leg is mending, but he cannot walk with us.
He promises, though, to come to Johnson's Court this evening--I
suppose, in a sedan-chair--and greet your uncle Annesley, whom I have
engaged to take back to supper. You knew, of course, that I should
be lodging there?"

"Sammy--we call him Sammy--told me on Sunday, but could not say when
you would be arriving here."

"I reached London last night, and this morning your uncle Matthew
came to my door with word that the _Albemarle_ had entered the river.
I think you are well enough to walk to the Docks with me."

"Well enough? Of course I am. But why not take a waterman from the
stairs here?"

"'Twill cost less to walk and hire a boat at Blackwall, if necessary.
Your father could give me very little money, Charles. We seem to be
as poorly off as ever."

"And this uncle Annesley--" he began, but paused with a glance at his
mother, whose face had suddenly grown hot. "What sort of a man is
he?"

"My boy," she said with an effort, "I must not be ashamed to tell my
child what I am not ashamed to hope. He is rich: he once promised to
do much for Emmy and Sukey, and these promises came to nothing.
But now that his wife is dead and he comes home with neither chick
nor child, I see no harm in praying that his heart may be moved
towards his sister's children. At least I shall be frank with him
and hide not my hope, let him treat it as he will." She was silent
for a moment. "Are _all_ women unscrupulous when they fight for
their children? They cannot all be certain, as I am, that their
children were born for greatness: and yet, I wonder sometimes--"
She wound up with a smile which held something of a playful irony,
but more of sadness.

"Jacky could not come with you?"

"No, and he writes bitterly about it. He is tied to Oxford--by lack
of pence, again."

By this time Charles had slipped on his jacket, and the pair stepped
out into the streets and set their faces eastward. Mrs. Wesley was
cockney-bred and delighted in the stir and rush of life. She, the
mother of many children, kept a well-poised figure and walked w