She placed the lamp once more upon the table, yet did not seat herself beside it, but walked hastily up and down the room.  “To be young no more, to be poor and powerless, to have no hope in this world nor belief in a better, to have lost even belief in one’s self—­is not that to be in Gehenna?  I am punished for my sins, men say.  Hypocrites! liars!  Why is he not punished?  Why is he proud, and strong, and prosperous?  Sins?  If Judgment-day should come to-morrow, my soul would be as pure as snow beside that man’s! ay, and beside most men’s!  Joanna here knew that—­I suppose by inspiration; for how else should she?  What’s that?”

Amidst the pelting of the rain, which had increased within the last few hours rather than diminished, the pulling of the house-bell could be heard.  Mrs. Yorke drew forth her watch—­a jeweled trinket of exquisite beauty, one of the few relics of her palmy time.  “Past midnight,” she murmured, “and all the lodgers are within.  Who can it be?”

The bell pealed forth again.

She went into the hall, where the gas was burning, and unlocked the door.  At the same time somebody flung himself violently against it, but the chain was up.

“Who is it?” inquired she; and it was strange, at such a moment, to hear how very soft and musically she spoke, although, when talking to herself a while ago, her tones had been harsh and bitter as her mood.

“It is I, mother,” returned the voice from outside.

She unhitched the chain and let him in.  “I knew it would be so, Dick,” said she, quietly.

Richard was pale and haggard, and shone from head to foot with the rain, which poured off his water-proof coat in streams.

“You were right, mother,” said he, as he kissed her cheek.  “No reproaches.  Let me have food and fire.”

She brought him socks and slippers, made a cheerful blaze, and set cold meat and spirits upon the table.

He ate voraciously, and drank his hot brandy-and-water, while Mrs. Yorke worked busily at an antimacassar, in silence.

“You are not disappointed at seeing me, that’s one thing, mother?”

“No.  Read that.”  She pushed across to him the letter she had been writing to him that evening, and pointed to this sentence:  “You have my good wishes, but not my hopes—­I have no hopes.  I shall be surprised if I do not have you back again before the week is out.”

“Just so,” said the young man, cynically.  “You have the pleasure, then, which your dear friend Joanna there never enjoyed, of seeing your own prophecy accomplished; and I, for my part, have three hundred pounds to solace myself with for what has certainly been a disappointment.”

“I am glad you are so philosophic, Dick.  It is the best thing we can be, if we can’t be religious.  How did it all happen?”

“I scarcely know the plot (for there was a plot), but only the denouement.  I had offended a certain Mr. Fane, toady-in-ordinary to Frederick Chandos.”