“My mother is dead, sir.”

His eyes sought those of Mr. Bradshaw with a wild look of agony, as if to find comfort for that great loss in human sympathy; and at the first word—­the first touch of Mr. Bradshaw’s hand on his shoulder—­he burst out afresh.

“Come, come! my boy!—­Mr. Francis, I will see you about this to-morrow—­I will call at your house.—­Let me take you home, my poor fellow.  Come, my lad, come!”

The first time, for years, that he had entered Mr. Benson’s house, he came leading and comforting her son—­and, for a moment, he could not speak to his old friend, for the sympathy which choked up his voice, and filled his eyes with tears.