The mother also loved her son with a mother’s natural love; but Louis had ever been ashamed of his mother, and had, as far as possible, estranged himself from her.  Her heart, perhaps, fixed itself almost with almost a warmer love on Frank Gresham, her foster-son.  Frank she saw but seldom, but when she did see him he never refused her embrace.  There was, too, a joyous, genial lustre about Frank’s face which always endeared him to women, and made his former nurse regard him as the pet creation of the age.  Though she but seldom interfered with any monetary arrangement of her husband’s, yet once or twice she had ventured to hint that a legacy left to the young squire would make her a happy woman.  Sir Roger, however, on these occasions had not appeared very desirous of making his wife happy.

‘Ah, Louis! is that you?’ ejaculated Sir Roger, in tones hardly more than half-formed:  afterwards in a day or two that is, he fully recovered his voice; but just then he could hardly open his jaws, and spoke almost through his teeth.  He managed, however, to put out his hand and lay it on the counterpane, so that his son could take it.

‘Why, that’s well, governor,’ said the son; ’you’ll be as right as a trivet in a day or two—­eh, governor?’

The ‘governor’ smiled with a ghastly smile.  He already pretty well knew that he would never again be ‘right’ as his son called it, on that side of the grave.  It did not, moreover, suit him to say much just at that moment, so he contented himself with holding his son’s hand.  He lay still in this position for a moment, and then, turning round painfully on his side, endeavoured to put his hand to the place where his dire enemy usually was concealed.  Sir Roger, however, was too weak now to be his own master; he was at length, though too late, a captive in the hands of nurses and doctors, and the bottle had now been removed.

Then Lady Scatcherd came in, and seeing that her husband was not longer unconscious, she could not but believe that Dr Thorne had been wrong; she could not but think that there must be some ground for hope.  She threw herself on her knees at the bedside bursting into tears as she did so, and taking Sir Roger’s hand in hers and covered it with kisses.

‘Bother!’ said Sir Roger.

She did not, however, long occupy herself with the indulgence of her feelings; but going speedily to work, produced such sustenance as the doctors had ordered to be given when the patient might awake.  A breakfast-cup was brought to him, and a few drops were put into his mouth; but he soon made it manifest that he would take nothing more of a description so perfectly innocent.

‘A drop of brandy—­just a little drop,’ said he, half-ordering, half-entreating.

‘Ah, Roger,’ said Lady Scatcherd.

‘Just a little drop, Louis,’ said the sick man, appealing to his son.

‘A little will be good for him; bring the bottle, mother,’ said the son.