“Oh, Mr. Jackson, do not be severe with me!  Speak a word of encouragement to me, I beseech you.”

“You are Polly’s mother.”

“Yes.”

Yes.  Polly herself might come to this, one day.  As you see what the rose was in its faded leaves; as you see what the summer growth of the woods was in their wintry branches; so Polly might be traced, one day, in a careworn woman like this, with her hair turned grey.  Before him were the ashes of a dead fire that had once burned bright.  This was the woman he had loved.  This was the woman he had lost.  Such had been the constancy of his imagination to her, so had Time spared her under its withholding, that now, seeing how roughly the inexorable hand had struck her, his soul was filled with pity and amazement.

He led her to a chair, and stood leaning on a corner of the chimney-piece, with his head resting on his hand, and his face half averted.

“Did you see me in the street, and show me to your child?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Is the little creature, then, a party to deceit?”

“I hope there is no deceit.  I said to her, ’We have lost our way, and I must try to find mine by myself.  Go to that gentleman, and tell him you are lost.  You shall be fetched by-and-by.’  Perhaps you have not thought how very young she is?”

“She is very self-reliant.”

“Perhaps because she is so young.”

He asked, after a short pause, “Why did you do this?”

“Oh, Mr. Jackson, do you ask me?  In the hope that you might see something in my innocent child to soften your heart towards me.  Not only towards me, but towards my husband.”

He suddenly turned about, and walked to the opposite end of the room.  He came back again with a slower step, and resumed his former attitude, saying: 

“I thought you had emigrated to America?”

“We did.  But life went ill with us there, and we came back.”

“Do you live in this town?”

“Yes.  I am a daily teacher of music here.  My husband is a book-keeper.”

“Are you—­forgive my asking—­poor?”

“We earn enough for our wants.  That is not our distress.  My husband is very, very ill of a lingering disorder.  He will never recover—­”

“You check yourself.  If it is for want of the encouraging word you spoke of, take it from me.  I cannot forget the old time, Beatrice.”

“God bless you!” she replied with a burst of tears, and gave him her trembling hand.

“Compose yourself.  I cannot be composed if you are not, for to see you weep distresses me beyond expression.  Speak freely to me.  Trust me.”

She shaded her face with her veil, and after a little while spoke calmly.  Her voice had the ring of Polly’s.

“It is not that my husband’s mind is at all impaired by his bodily suffering, for I assure you that is not the case.  But in his weakness, and in his knowledge that he is incurably ill, he cannot overcome the ascendancy of one idea.  It preys upon him, embitters every moment of his painful life, and will shorten it.”