form, were more impressive
from the shadowy dimness of the air.

"Come round, Catherine," said Mr. Morton after a pause; "I will admit
you."

He shut the window, stole to the door, unbarred it gently, and admitted
his visitor. He bade her follow him; and, shading the light with his
hand, crept up the stairs. Catherine's step made no sound.

They passed, unmolested, and unheard, the room in which the wife was
drowsily reading, according to her custom before she tied her nightcap
and got into bed, a chapter in some pious book. They ascended to the
chamber where Sidney lay; Morton opened the door cautiously, and stood
at the threshold, so holding the candle that its light might not wake
the child, though it sufficed to guide Catherine to the bed. The room
was small, perhaps close, but scrupulously clean; for cleanliness was
Mrs. Roger Morton's capital virtue. The mother, with a tremulous hand,
drew aside the white curtains, and checked her sobs as she gazed on the
young quiet face that was turned towards her. She gazed some moments in
passionate silence; who shall say, beneath that silence, what thoughts,
what prayers moved and stirred!

Then bending down, with pale, convulsive lips she kissed the little
hands thrown so listlessly on the coverlet of the pillow on which the
head lay. After this she turned her face to her brother with a mute
appeal in her glance, took a ring from her finger--a ring that had never
till then left it--the ring which Philip Beaufort had placed there the
day after that child was born. "Let him wear this round his neck," said
she, and stopped, lest she should sob aloud, and disturb the boy. In
that gift she felt as if she invoked the father's spirit to watch over
the friendless orphan; and then, pressing together her own hands firmly,
as we do in some paroxysm of great pain, she turned from the room,
descended the stairs, gained the street, and muttered to her brother, "I
am happy now; peace be on these thresholds!" Before he could answer she
was gone.

CHAPTER IX.

"Thus things are strangely wrought,
While joyful May doth last;
Take May in Time--when May is gone
The pleasant time is past."--RICHARD EDWARDS.
From the Paradise of Dainty Devices.

It was that period of the year when, to those who look on the surface of
society, London wears its most radiant smile; when shops are gayest,
and trade most brisk; when down the thoroughfares r