teringly.

The conversation dropped there; at least there came an interval of
quiet working on the young lady's part, and of rather listless knitting
on the part of the mother, whose eyes went wistfully to the window
without seeing anything. And this lasted till a step was heard at the
front door. Mrs. Dallas let fall her needles and her yarn and rose
hurriedly, crying out, 'That is not Mr. Dallas!' and so speaking,
rushed into the hall.

There was a little bustle, a smothered word or two, and then a
significant silence; which lasted long enough to let the watcher left
behind in the drawing-room conclude on the very deep relations
subsisting between mother and son. Steps were heard moving at length,
but they moved and stopped; there was lingering, and slow progress; and
words were spoken, broken questions from Mrs. Dallas and brief
responses in a stronger voice that was low-pitched and pleasant. The
figures appeared in the doorway at last, but even there lingered still.
The mother and son were looking into one another's faces and speaking
those absorbed little utterances of first meeting which are
insignificant enough, if they were not weighted with such a burden of
feeling. Miss Betty, sitting at her embroidery, cast successive rapid
glances of curiosity and interest at the new-comer. His voice had
already made her pulses quicken a little, for the tone of it touched
her fancy. The first glance showed him tall and straight; the second
caught a smile which was both merry and sweet; a third saw that the
level brows expressed character; and then the two people turned their
faces towards her and came into the room, and Mrs. Dallas presented her
son.

The young lady rose and made a reverence, according to the more stately
and more elegant fashion of the day. The gentleman's obeisance was
profound in its demonstration of respect. Immediately after, however,
he turned to his mother again; a look of affectionate joy shining upon
her out of his eyes and smile.

'Two years!' she was exclaiming. 'Pitt, how you have changed!'

'Have I? I think not much.'

'No, in one way not much. I see you are your old self. But two years
have made you older.'

'So they should.'

'Somehow I had not expected it,' said the mother, passing her hand
across her eyes with a gesture a little as if there were tears in them.
'I thought I should see _my_ boy again--and he is gone.'

'Not at all!' said Pitt, laughing. 'Mistaken, mother. There is