shapes and phases; of being over-ridden and distorted at any time by selfishness or wickedness in its object, as it had been by his selfish mother.  In Mercy, it was on a higher and healthier plane.  Without being a shade less loyal, she would be far clearer-sighted; would render, but not surrender; would give a lifetime of service, but not a moment of subjection.  There was a shade of something feminine in Stephen’s loyalty, of something perhaps masculine in Mercy’s; but Mercy’s was the best, the truest.

“I wouldn’t allow my mother to treat a stranger like that,” she thought indignantly, as she walked away after Mrs. White’s inhospitable invitation to tea.  “I wouldn’t allow her.  I would make her see the shamefulness of it.  What a weak man Mr. White must be!”

Yet if Mercy could have looked into the room she had just left, and have seen Stephen listening with a face unmoved, save for a certain compression of the mouth, and a look of patient endurance in the eyes, to a torrent of ill-nature from his mother, she would have recognized that he had strength, however much she might have undervalued its type.

“I should really think that you might have more consideration, Stephen, than to be so late to tea, when you know it is all I have to look forward to, all day long.  You stood a good half hour talking with that woman, Did you not know how late it was?”

“No, mother.  If I had, I should have come in.”

“I suppose you had your watch on, hadn’t you?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Well, I’d like to know what excuse there is for a man’s not knowing what time it is, when he has a watch in his pocket?  And then you must needs bring her in here, of all things,—­when you know I hate to see people near my meal-times, and you must have known it was near supper-time.  At any rate, watch or no watch, I suppose you didn’t think you’d started to come home in the middle of the afternoon, did you?  And what did you want her to come in for, anyhow?  I’d like to know that.  Answer me, will you?”

“Simply because I thought that it would give you pleasure to see some one, mother.  You often complain of being so lonely, of no one’s coming in,” replied Stephen, in a tone which was pathetic, almost shrill, from its effort to be patient and calm.

“I wish, if you can’t speak in your own voice, you wouldn’t speak at all,” said the angry woman.  “What makes you change your voice so?”

Stephen made no reply.  He knew very well this strange tone which sometimes came into his voice, when his patience was tried almost beyond endurance.  He would have liked to avoid it; he was instinctively conscious that it often betrayed to other people what he suffered.  But it was beyond his control:  it seemed as if all the organs of speech involuntarily clenched themselves, as the hand unconsciously clenches itself when a man is enraged.