have positively liked her.  She was pungent, and had taste, and spirit, and flavour in her.  True, she was sadly prejudiced, and veryignorant; but that was to be expected from her southern breeding.  A strange sort of mortified comparison of Fanny with her, went on in Mrs. Thornton’s mind; and for once she spoke harshly to her daughter; abused her roundly; and then, as if by way of penance, she took up Henry’s Commentaries, and tried to fix her attention on it, instead of pursuing the employment she took pride and pleasure in, and continuing her inspection of the table-linen.

His step at last!  She heard him, even while she thought she was finishing a sentence; while her eye did pass over it, and her memory could mechanically have repeated it word for word, she heard him come in at the hall-door.  Her quickened sense could interpret every sound of motion:  now he was at the hat-stand—­now at the very room-door.  Why did he pause?  Let her know the worst.

Yet her head was down over the book; she did not look up.  He came close to the table, and stood still there, waiting till she should have finished the paragraph which apparently absorbed her.  By an effort she looked up.  Well, John?’

He knew what that little speech meant.  But he had steeled himself.  He longed to reply with a jest; the bitterness of his heart could have uttered one, but his mother deserved better of him.  He came round behind her, so that she could not see his looks, and, bending back her gray, stony face, he kissed it, murmuring: 

‘No one loves me,—­no one cares for me, but you, mother.’

He turned away and stood leaning his head against the mantel-piece, tears forcing themselves into his manly eyes.  She stood up,—­she tottered.  For the first time in her life, the strong woman tottered.  She put her hands on his shoulders; she was a tall woman.  She looked into his face; she made him look at her.

’Mother’s love is given by God, John.  It holds fast for ever and ever.  A girl’s love is like a puff of smoke,—­it changes with every wind.  And she would not have you, my own lad, would not she?’ She set her teeth; she showed them like a dog for the whole length of her mouth.  He shook his head.

‘I am not fit for her, mother; I knew I was not.’

She ground out words between her closed teeth.  He could not hear what she said; but the look in her eyes interpreted it to be a curse,—­if not as coarsely worded, as fell in intent as ever was uttered.  And yet her heart leapt up light, to know he was her own again.

‘Mother!’ said he, hurriedly, ’I cannot hear a word against her.  Spare me,—­spare me!  I am very weak in my sore heart;—­I love her yet; I love her more than ever.’

‘And I hate her,’ said Mrs. Thornton, in a low fierce voice.  ’I tried not to hate her, when she stood between you and me, because,—­I said to myself,—­she will make him happy; and I would give my heart’s blood to do that.  But now, I hate her for your misery’s sake.  Yes, John, it’s no use hiding up your aching heart from me.  I am the mother that bore you, and your sorrow is my agony; and if you don’t hate her, I do.’