Miss Adamson too had been thinking of her mother, the hard-working woman who had toiled in her little shop to support her sickly husband and educate her daughter—­the kindly patient face, the hands that had never spared themselves, the footsteps that had plodded so incessantly to and fro.  The all that had been gone so long came back to her, and she felt almost the pang of first separation, when it seemed as if the end of her life had been extinguished and the motive-power for work had gone.  But she carried her mother in her heart:  with her it was still “my mother and I.”

Lady Arthur did not think of her mother:  she had lost her early, and besides, her thoughts and feelings had been all absorbed by her husband.

Alice Garscube had never known her mother, and as she looked gravely at the girl who was crying behind her handkerchief, she envied her—­she had known her mother.

As for Mr. Eildon, he had none but bright and happy thoughts connected with his mother.  It was true, she was a widow, but she was a kind and stately lady, round whom her family moved as round a sun and centre, giving light and heat and all good cheer; he could afford to joke about “my mother and I.”

What a vast deal of varied emotion these words must have stirred in the multitudes of travelers coming and going in all directions!

In jumping into the carriage when the last bell rang, Mr. Eildon missed his footing and fell back, with no greater injury, fortunately, than grazing the skin, of his hand.

“Is it much hurt?” Lady Arthur asked.

He held it up and said, “‘Who ran to help me when I fell?’”

“The guard,” said Miss Garscube.

“‘Who kissed the place to make it well?’” he continued.

“You might have been killed,” said Miss Adamson.

“That would not have been a pretty story to tell,” he said.  “I shall need to wait till I get home for the means of cure:  ‘my mother and I’ will manage it.  You’re not of a pitiful nature, Miss Garscube.”

“I keep my pity for a pitiful occasion,” she said.

“If you had grazed your hand, I would have applied the prescribed cure.”

“Well, but I’m very glad I have not grazed my hand,”

“So am I,” he said.

“Let me see it,” she said.  He held it out.  “Would something not need to be done for it?” she asked.

“Yes.  Is it interesting—­as interesting as the thorn?”

“It is nothing,” said Lady Arthur:  “a little lukewarm water is all that it needs;” and she thought, “That lad will never do anything either for himself or to add to the prestige of the family.  I hope his cousins have more ability.”

IV.