When it had come to the moment of leaving her son to the glowing promises of Mrs. Bishop’s tenderness and affection, Mrs. Priestly broke down, winding her arms tight about his little neck and pressing him fiercely to her bosom.  Mrs. Bishop stood by with an indulgent smile.

Then Mrs. Priestly had looked up with tears heavy in her eyes.

“I’ll come and see you, Mrs. Bishop,” she had said with control—­“I’ll come and see you when I’ve said good-bye, before I go.”

Mrs. Bishop had wisely taken the suggestion and departed to the end of the hall where her daughters were standing expectantly.

“Of course the child is spoilt,” she said, in an undertone.

“Why?” they asked in chorus.

“Well, she’s saying good-bye to him—­crying over him.  I call it very nonsensical.  I came away.  That sort of thing annoys me.”

And in the drawing-room, mother and son were saying a long farewell that was to last them for a few weeks.  It would be some time before she could come down from London, Mrs. Priestly had said.  The tears were falling fast down their cheeks.

“You won’t love any one else but mummy, will you, Maurie?”

“Shan’t love her,” he had said, with a thrusting of his head towards the door which Mrs. Bishop had just closed.

“And you’ll say prayers every night and every morning?”

“Yes, mummy.”

“And you’ll say, ‘God help mummy’”

“Will I pray for father?”

She took a deep breath as she looked above his head.  He was too young to feel the weight of the pause.  It meant nothing to him.  He thought she had not heard.

“Will I pray for father?” he repeated.

“Yes,” she said slowly; “pray for father, pray for him first, and then mummy, just before you go to sleep.  God bless you, my little darling—­” and in the fierce blinding passion which a mother alone can understand, she caught him again in her arms and crushed his yielding little body to her heart.

Such was the arrival of Master Maurice Priestly at No. 17, Wyatt
Street.

When she arrived, some three weeks after this event, Sally found a little fair-haired boy with sad blue eyes whom at night, in the room next to hers, she sometimes heard crying.  She had mentioned this to her mother.

“Oh, take no notice of it, Sally,” she said.  “It’s probably a noise he makes in his sleep.”

Sally had become a welcome addition to the household.  She had offered to pay liberally for her board while she stayed there and, during that visit, however long it should prove to be, they had been able to dispense with the services of Miss Hatch, the music-mistress, who came regularly every morning from ten till twelve and was a considerable drain on the net profits of the establishment.  Sally, unconscious of the change, filled her place.  From a quarter-past ten, until half-past, her pupil was Maurice, and on the day she had spoken to her mother about his crying, she also questioned him.