le fellow, whose mind
had been utterly dismayed by the events which had occurred to him
since his capture, though he returned her kisses, did so in fear
and trembling. And he was still sobbing, rubbing his eyes with his
knuckles, and by no means yielding himself with his whole heart to
his mother's tenderness,--as she would have had him do. "Louey,"
she said, whispering to him, "you know mamma; you haven't forgotten
mamma?" He half murmured some little infantine word through his sobs,
and then put his cheek up to be pressed against his mother's face.
"Louey will never, never forget his own mamma; will he, Louey?" The
poor boy had no assurances to give, and could only raise his cheek
again to be kissed. In the meantime Lady Rowley and Trevelyan were
standing by, not speaking to each other, regarding the scene in
silence.

[Illustration: "You haven't forgotten Mamma?"]

She,--Lady Rowley,--could see that he was frightfully altered in
appearance, even since the day on which she had so lately met him
in the City. His cheeks were thin and haggard, and his eyes were
deep and very bright,--and he moved them quickly from side to side,
as though ever suspecting something. He seemed to be smaller in
stature,--withered, as it were, as though he had melted away. And
though he stood looking upon his wife and child, he was not for a
moment still. He would change the posture of his hands and arms,
moving them quickly with little surreptitious jerks, and would
shuffle his feet upon the floor, almost without altering his
position. His clothes hung about him, and his linen was soiled and
worn. Lady Rowley noticed this especially, as he had been a man
peculiarly given to neatness of apparel. He was the first to speak.
"You have come down here in a cab?" said he.

"Yes,--in a cab, from London," said Lady Rowley.

"Of course you will go back in it? You cannot stay here. There is no
accommodation. It is a wretched place, but it suits the boy. As for
me, all places are now alike."

"Louis," said his wife, springing up from her knees, coming to him,
and taking his right hand between both her own, "you will let me take
him with me. I know you will let me take him with me."

"I cannot do that, Emily; it would be wrong."

"Wrong to restore a child to his mother? Oh, Louis, think of it. What
must my life be without him,--or you?"

"Don't talk of me. It is too late for that."

"Not if you will be reasonable, Louis, and listen to