er,
Geraldine sank back among the cushions.

"_Good_-night!" said the Honourable Frederic with grim affability;
then, popping his head out at the further window, "Drive on, John!"

The post-boy cracked his whip, the horses sprang forward, and Sam,
with that pitiless laugh still pealing in his ears, was left standing
on the high-road.

In the tumult of the moment, beyond a wild sense of injustice, it is
my belief that his brain accomplished little. He stared dully after
the retreating chaise, until it disappeared in the direction of Five
Lanes; and then he groaned aloud.

There was a patch of turf, now heavy with dew, beside the sign-post.
Upon this he sat down, and with his elbows on his knees, and head
between his hands, strove to still the giddy whirl in his brain. And
as his folly and its bitterness found him out, the poor fool rocked
himself, and cursed the day when he was born. If any one yet doubt
that Mr. Moggridge was an inspired singer, let him turn to that
sublime aspiration in _Sophronia: a Tragedy_--

"Let me be criminal, but never weak;
For weaklings wear the stunted form of sin
Without its brave apparel"--

and considered Sam Buzza as he writhed beneath the sign-post.

_Pat, pat, pat!_

It was the muffled sound of footsteps on the dusty road. He looked
up. A dark figure, the figure of a woman, was approaching. Its air
of timorous alertness, and its tendency to seek the shadow of the
hedge-row, gave him some confidence. He arose, and stepped forward
into the broad moonlight.

The woman gave a short gasp and came to a halt, shrinking back
against the hedge. Something in her outline struck sharply on Sam's
sense, though with a flash of doubt and wonder. She carried a small
handbag, and wore a thick veil over her face.

"Who are you?" he asked gently. "Don't be afraid."

The woman made no answer--only cowered more closely against the
hedge; and he heard her breath coming hard and fast. Once more--and
for the third time that night--Sam pulled the slide of his lantern.

"_Mother!_"

"Oh! Sam, Sam, don't betray me! I'll go back--indeed I'll go back!"

"In Heaven's name, mother, what are you doing here?"

The retort was obvious, but Mrs. Buzza merely cried--

"Dear Sam, have pity on me, and take me back! I'll go quietly--quite
quietly."

The idea of his mother (who weighed eighteen stone if an ounce)
resisting with kicks and struggles might have caused Sam some
a