e morning among
the trees. When you wouldn't give me nothing. But the gentleman, he give
me something! Oh, bless him, bless him!' mumbled the old woman, holding
up her skinny hand, and grinning frightfully at her daughter.

'It's of no use attempting to stay me, Edith!' said Mrs Skewton, angrily
anticipating an objection from her. 'You know nothing about it. I won't
be dissuaded. I am sure this is an excellent woman, and a good mother.'

'Yes, my Lady, yes,' chattered the old woman, holding out her avaricious
hand. 'Thankee, my Lady. Lord bless you, my Lady. Sixpence more, my
pretty Lady, as a good mother yourself.'

'And treated undutifully enough, too, my good old creature, sometimes, I
assure you,' said Mrs Skewton, whimpering. 'There! Shake hands with me.
You're a very good old creature--full of what's-his-name--and all that.
You're all affection and et cetera, ain't you?'

'Oh, yes, my Lady!'

'Yes, I'm sure you are; and so's that gentlemanly creature Grangeby. I
must really shake hands with you again. And now you can go, you know;
and I hope,' addressing the daughter, 'that you'll show more gratitude,
and natural what's-its-name, and all the rest of it--but I never
remember names--for there never was a better mother than the good old
creature's been to you. Come, Edith!'

As the ruin of Cleopatra tottered off whimpering, and wiping its eyes
with a gingerly remembrance of rouge in their neighbourhood, the old
woman hobbled another way, mumbling and counting her money. Not one word
more, nor one other gesture, had been exchanged between Edith and the
younger woman, but neither had removed her eyes from the other for a
moment. They had remained confronted until now, when Edith, as awakening
from a dream, passed slowly on.

'You're a handsome woman,' muttered her shadow, looking after her; 'but
good looks won't save us. And you're a proud woman; but pride won't save
us. We had need to know each other when we meet again!'

CHAPTER 41. New Voices in the Waves

All is going on as it was wont. The waves are hoarse with repetition of
their mystery; the dust lies piled upon the shore; the sea-birds soar
and hover; the winds and clouds go forth upon their trackless flight;
the white arms beckon, in the moonlight, to the invisible country far
away.

With a tender melancholy pleasure, Florence finds herself again on the
old ground so sadly trodden, yet so happily, and thinks of him in
the quiet place, where