“‘Sure, Teddy, an’, if it’s one or tither of ’em is Prisident, what differ’ll it make to us?’ An’ he says, says he, ’Whist, moother! fer one day, mabbe, it’s I’ll be the Prisident mesilf; an’ what way ’ud that be fer me moother to be talkin’?’

“But now it’s no sich talk ye’ll git out uv him, an’ niver a laugh nor a joke, nor the bit bowld ways he used to have wid him.  An’ och, honey! if ye’ve lost yer purty darlint, it’s I’ve lost me b’y that wor as mooch to me; an’ it’s I’m the heavy-hearted woman, this’ day an’ alluz.”

CHAPTER XXVII.

Teddy finds A new patron.

Teddy, dragging his heavy feet up the stairs in the stifling September twilight, paused suddenly to listen to a murmur of voices in his mother’s room.

Some one was speaking; and the pure, clear tone sent a thrill through his veins like the shock of an electric battery.  No voice but one had ever sounded like that to him; and, springing up the remaining stairs, Teddy threw open the door of the chamber, and looked eagerly about it.

The one for whom he looked was not there; but, instead, a lady, whose fragile loveliness reminded him so strangely of the little sister as she had looked in her long days of convalescence, that he stood still, staring dumbly.

“An’ where’s yer manners, Teddy Ginniss?  Couldn’ ye see the lady forenenst ye, widout starin’ like a stuck pig?-It’s dazed he is, ma’am, wid seein’ the likes uv yees in this poor place.”

“Come here, Teddy; I am waiting to see you,” said the lady.  And again the pure, silvery tones tingled along Teddy’s nerves with a sharp, sweet thrill.

“O ma’am! are you her mother?” cried he breathlessly.

“Yes, I am her mother, and have come to see you, who loved her so well, and your good mother, who cared for her when she was motherless”—­

The sweet voice faltered, and Teddy broke in,—­

“And you needn’t be afraid to say the worst that can be said, ma’am.  I’ve said it all before; and you can’t hate me worse than I hate myself.”

“Hate you, my poor boy?  I only pity you; for I have heard, and can see, how much you suffer.  I cannot wonder that you should love her so well; and, when you knew who she was, I dare say you were meaning to restore her, so soon as you could bring yourself to it.”

“Indeed I was, ma’am.  I can take God to witness that I was,” said Teddy solemnly, his eyes brimming, and his face working with the strong emotion he tried so hard to subdue.

“I am sure of it; and I love you more for the love you bore her than I blame you for the fault that love led you into.”  She paused a moment; and then the insatiate mother pride and love burst out, demanding sympathy.

“She was a lovely child, wasn’t she, Teddy?” asked she with a tremulous smile.

The boy’s rough face lighted, as if by reflection from her own, as he replied,—­