"Over here."

"Ay, to be sure, at th' missus's death. Yo
need na be feared of my telling; for Mary
and me, we knowed it all along, only we held
our peace, for we got it through Mary
working in th' house."

"And he was over.  It was her brother!"

"Sure enough, and I reckoned you knowed
it, or I'd never ha' let on. Yo knowed she
had a brother?"

"Yes, I know all about him. And he was
over at Mrs. Hale's death?"

"Nay! I'm not going for to tell more.
I've maybe getten them into mischief already,
for they kept it very close. I nobbut wanted
to know if they'd getten him cleared?"

"Not that I know of. I know nothing. I
only hear of Miss Hale, now, as my landlord,
and through her lawyer."

He broke off from Higgins, to follow the
business on which he had been bent when the
latter first accosted him; leaving Higgins
baffled in his endeavour.

"It was her brother," said Mr. Thornton to
himself. "I am glad. I may never see her
again; but it is a comfort—a relief—to know
that much. I knew she could not be
unmaidenly; and yet I yearned for conviction.
Now I am glad!"

It was a little golden thread running
through the dark web of his present fortunes:
which were growing ever gloomier and more
gloomy. His agent had largely trusted a
house in the American trade, which went
down, along with several others, just at this
time, like a pack of cards, the fall of one
compelling other failures.  What were Mr.
Thornton's engagements? Could he stand?

Night after night he took books and papers
into his own private room, and sate up there
long after the family were gone to bed. He
thought that no one knew of this occupation
of the hours he should have spent in sleep.
One morning, when daylight was stealing in
through the crevices of his shutters, and he
had never been in bed, and in hopeless
indifference of mind was thinking that he could
do without the hour or two of rest that he
should be able to take before the stir of daily
labour began again, the door of this room
opened, and his mother stood there, dressed
as she had been the day before. She had
never laid herself down to slumber more
than he. Their eyes met. Their faces were
cold and rigid, and wan, from long watching.

"Mother! why are not you in bed?"

"Son John," said she, "do you think I can
sleep with an easy mind, while you keep
awake full of care? You have not told me
what your trouble is; but sore trouble you
have had these many days past."

"Trade is bad."

"And you dread—"

"I dread nothing," replied he, drawing up
his head, and holding it erect. "I know now
that no man will suffer by me. That was my
anxiety."

"But how do you stand? Shall you—will
it be a failure?" her steady voice trembling
in an unwonted manner.

"Not a failure. I must give up business,
but I pay all men. I might redeem myself—
I am sorely tempted—"

"How? Oh, John! keep up your name—
try all risks for that. How redeem it?"

"By a speculation offered to me, full of
risk; but, if successful, placing me high above
water-mark, so that no one need ever know
the strait I am in. Still, if it fails—"

"And if it fails," said she, advancing, and
laying her hand on his arm, her eyes full of
eager light. She held her breath to hear the
end of his speech.

"Honest men are ruined by a rogue," said
he gloomily. "As I stand now, my creditors'
money is safe—every farthing of it; but I
don't know where to find my own—it may
be all gone, and I penniless at this moment.
Therefore, it is my creditors' money that I
should risk."

"But if it succeeded, they need never
know. Is it so desperate a speculation? I
am sure it is not, or you would never have
thought of it. If it succeeded—"

"I should be a rich man, and my peace of
conscience would be gone!"

"Why! You would have injured no one."

"No! but I should have run the risk of
ruining many for my own paltry aggrandisement.
Mother, I have decided! You won't
much grieve over our leaving this house,
shall you, dear mother?"

"No! but to have you other than what
you are will break my heart. What can
you do?"

"Be always the same John Thornton in
whatever circumstances; endeavouring to do
right, and making great blunders; and then
trying to be brave in setting-to afresh. But
it is hard, mother. I have so worked and
planned. I have discovered new powers in
my situation too late—and now all is over.
I am too old to begin again with the same
heart. It is hard, mother."

He turned away from her, and covered his
face with his hands.

"I can't think," said she, with gloomy
defiance in her tone, "how it comes about.
Here is my boy—good son, just man, tender
heart—and he fails in all he sets his mind
upon: he finds a woman to love, and she
cares no more for his affection than if he had
been any common man; he labours and
his labour comes to nought. Other people
prosper and grow rich, and hold their paltry
names high and dry above shame."

"Shame never touched me," said he in a
low tone: but she went on.

"I sometimes have wondered where justice
was gone to, and now I don't believe there is
such a thing in the world,—now you are
come to this; you, my own John Thornton,
though you and I may be beggars together—
my own dear son!"