Mr. Caldigate was in the house,—­in his own book-room, as it used to be called,—­and Hester went to him first.  ’Mamma is here,—­in the dining-room.’

‘Your mother!’

‘I long to see mamma.’

‘Of course you do.’

‘But she will want me to go away with her.’

‘She cannot take you unless you choose to go.’

’But she will speak of nothing else.  I know it.  I wish she had not come.’

‘Surely, Hester, you can make her understand that your mind is made up.’

’Yes, I shall do that.  I must do that.  But, father, it will be very painful.  You do not know what things she can say.  It nearly killed me when I was at the Grange.  You will not see her, I suppose?’

’If you wish it, I will.  She will not care to see me; and as things are at present, what room is there for friendship?’

‘You will come if I send for you?’

‘Certainly.  If you send for me I will come at once.’

Then she crept slowly out of the room, and very slowly and very silently made her way to the parlour-door.  Though she was of a strong nature, unusually strong of heart and fixed of purpose, now her heart misgave her.  That terrible struggle, with all its incidents of weariness and agony, was present to her mind.  Her mother could not turn the lock on her now; but, as she had said, it would be very dreadful.  Her mother would say words to her which would go through her like swords.  Then she opened the door, and for a moment there was the sweetness of an embrace.  There was a prolonged tenderness in the kiss which, even to Mrs. Bolton, had a charm for the moment to soften her spirit.  ’Oh, mamma; my own mamma!’

‘My child!’

’Yes, mamma;—­every day when I pray for you I tell myself that I am still your child,—­I do.’

‘My only one! my only one!—­all that I have!’ Then again they were in each other’s arms.  Yet, when they had last met, one had been the jailer, and the other the prisoner; and they had fought it out between them with a determined obstinacy which at moments had almost amounted to hatred.  But now the very memory of these sad hours increased their tenderness.  ’Hester, through it all, do you not know that my heart yearns for you day and night?—­that in my prayers I am always remembering you? that my dreams are happy because you are with me? that I am ever longing for you as Ruth longed for Naomi?  I am as Rachel weeping for her children, who would not be comforted because they are not.  Day and night my heart-strings are torn asunder because my eyes behold you not.’