r
now, as she looked back at her past life, that her guilt had sat so
lightly on her shoulders. The black unwelcome guest, the spectre
of coming evil, had ever been present to her; but she had seen it
indistinctly, and now and then the power had been hers to close her
eyes. Never again could she close them. Nearer to her, and still
nearer, the spectre came; and now it sat upon her pillow, and put
its claw upon her plate; it pressed upon her bosom with its fiendish
strength, telling her that all was over for her in this world:--ay,
and telling her worse even than that. Her return to her old home
brought with it but little comfort.

And yet she was forced to make an effort at seeming glad that she had
come there,--a terrible effort! He, her son, was not gay or disposed
to receive from her a show of happiness; but he did think that she
should compose herself and be tranquil, and that she should resume
the ordinary duties of her life in her ordinarily quiet way. In
all this she was obliged to conform herself to his wishes,--or to
attempt so to conform herself, though her heart should break in the
struggle. If he did but know it all, then he would suffer her to be
quiet,--suffer her to lie motionless in her misery! Once or twice she
almost said to herself that she would make the effort; but when she
thought of him and his suffering, of his pride, of the respect which
he claimed from all the world as the honest son of an honest mother,
of his stubborn will and stiff neck, which would not bend, but would
break beneath the blow. She had done all for him,--to raise him in
the world; and now she could not bring herself to undo the work that
had cost her so dearly!

That evening she went through the ceremony of dinner with him, and he
was punctilious in waiting upon her as though bread and meat could
comfort her or wine could warm her heart. There was no warmth for her
in all the vintages of the south, no comfort though gods should bring
to her their banquets. She was heavy laden,--laden to the breaking of
her back, and did not know where to lay her burden down.

"Mother," he said to her that night, lifting his head from the books
over which he had been poring, "There must be a few words between us
about this affair. They might as well be spoken now."

"Yes, Lucius; of course--if you desire it."

"There can be no doubt now that this trial will take place."

"No doubt;" she said. "There can be no doubt."

"Is it your wish