She was not disappointed, for there, at the open door, stood John Lawson.  He was enveloped in a cloak of fur, the costliness of which told Mrs. Lawson that it was the purchase of wealth; a servant in plain livery supported him, for he seemed a complete invalid.

Mrs. Lawson threw her arms around his neck, and embraced him with a warmth and eagerness which brought a cold and bitter smile over the white, thin lips of John Lawson.  He replied briefly to the welcomings he had received.  He threw aside his cloak, and exhibited the figure of an exceedingly emaciated and feeble old man, who had all the appearance of ninety years, though he was little more than sixty; his face was worn and fleshless to a painful degree; his hair was of the whitest shade of great age, but his eyes had grown much more serene in their expression than in his earlier days, notwithstanding a cast of suffering which his whole countenance exhibited.  He was plainly, but most carefully and respectably dressed; a diamond ring of great value was on one of his fingers; the luster of the diamonds caught Mrs. Lawson’s glance on her first inspection of his person, and her heart danced with rapture—­Mrs. Thompson had no such ring, with all her boasting of all her finery.

“I have come to see my child before I die,” said the old man, gazing on his son with earnest eyes; “you broke the ties of nature between us on your part, when, ten years ago, you refused your father a few shillings from your abundance, but—­”

He was interrupted by Mrs. Lawson, who uttered many voluble protestations of her deep grief at her having, even though for the sake of economy, refused the money her dear father had solicited before he left them.  She vowed that she had neither ate, nor slept, nor even dressed herself for weeks after his departure; and that, sleeping or waking, she was perpetually wishing she had given him the money, even though she had known that he was going to throw it into the fire, or lose it in any way.  Her poor, dear father—­oh, she wept so after she heard that he had left the country.  To be sure, Henry could tell how, for two or three nights, her pillow was soaked with tears.

A cold, bitter smile again flitted across the old man’s lips; he made no response to her words, but in the one look which his hollow eyes cast on her, he seemed to read the falsehood of her assertions.

“I was going to add,” he said, “that though you forgot you were my son, and refused to act as my son, when you withheld the paltry sum for which I begged, yet I could not refrain from coming once more to look on my child’s face—­to look on the face of my departed wife in yours—­for I know that a very brief period must finish my life now.  I should not have come here, I feel—­I know it is the weakness of my nature—­I should have died amongst strangers, for the strangers of other countries, the people of a different hue and a different language, I have found kind and pitiful, compared with those of my own house.”