She attempted to speak, but failed.  Something fell on her hand, and she looked up.  The man was weeping.  They sat there in silence.

“In your early life,” she said, pressing his arms closer about her neck, “my love sought to protect you, but now it must turn to you for support.  Your uncle—­but you told me not to speak of him.”  She paused a moment, and then continued:  “Your uncle did me a deep wrong, but I had wronged him.  Oh, I don’t know why I did.  And he had kept my letters all these years.”  Another silence.  She was the first to speak.  “Ellen loves me, but a daughter’s love is more of a help than a support.”

“And father?”

“Oh, he is good and kind,” she quickly answered, “but somehow I haven’t kept up with him.  He is so strong, and I fear that my nature is too simple; I haven’t force enough to help him when he’s worried.  He hasn’t said so, but I know it!  And of course you don’t understand me yet; but won’t you bear with me?”

In her voice there was a sad pleading for love, and this man, though playing a part, dropped the promptings of his role, and with the memory of his own mother strong within him, pressed this frail woman to his bosom and with tender reverence kissed her.

“Oh,” she sobbed, “I thank God for bringing you back to me.  Good night.”

He closed the door when she was gone, and stood as though he knew not whither to turn.  He looked at the onyx clock ticking on the mantelpiece.  He listened to the rumble of a carriage in the street.  He put out his hands, and going slowly into his sleeping-room, sank upon his knees at the bedside.

CHAPTER VIII.

The domain of A great merchant.

To one who has gazed for many hours upon whirling scenes, and who at his journey’s end has gone to sleep in an unfamiliar place, the question of self-identity presents itself at morning and of the dozing faculties demands an answer.  Henry lay in bed, catching at flitting consciousness, but missing it.  He tried to recall his own name, but could not.  One moment he felt that he was on board a ship, rising and sinking with the mood of the sea; then he was on a railway train, catching sight of a fence that streaked its way across a field.  He saw a boy struggling with a horse that was frightened at the train; he saw a girl wave her beflowered hat—­a rushing woods, a whirling open space, a sleepy station.  Once he fancied that he was a child lying in bed, not at midnight, but at happy, bird-chattered morning, when the sun was bright; but then he heard a roar and he saw a street stretch out into a darkening distance, and he knew that he was in a great city.  Consciousness loitered within reach, and he seized it.  He was called to breakfast.

How bright the morning.  Through the high and church-like windows softened sunbeams fell upon the stairway.  He heard Ellen singing in the music-room; he met the rich fragrance of coffee.  Mrs. Witherspoon, with a smile of quiet happiness, stood at the foot of the stairs.  Ellen came out with a lithe skip and threw a kiss at him.  Witherspoon sat in the breakfast-room reading a morning newspaper.