She fell upon his neck, and kissed him
through her tears.

"Mother!" said he, holding her gently in
his arms, "Who has sent me my lot in life,
both of good and of evil?"

She shook her head. She would have
nothing to do with religion just then.

"Mother," he went on, seeing that she
would not speak,  "I, too, have been
rebellious; but I am striving to be so no longer.
Help me, as you helped me when I was a
child. Then you said many good words—
when my father died, and we were
sometimes sorely short of comforts—which we
shall never be now; you said brave, noble,
trustful words then, mother, which I have
never forgotten, though they may have lain
dormant. Speak to me again in the old way,
mother. Do not let us have to think that the
world has too much hardened our hearts
If you would say the old good words, it would
make me feel something of the pious
simplicity of my childhood. I say them to
myself, but they would come differently from
you, remembering all the cares and trials you
have had to bear."

"I have had a many," said she, sobbing,
"but none so sore as this. To see you cast
down from your rightful place! I could say
it for myself, John, but not for you. Not for
you! God has seen fit to be very hard on
you, very."

She shook with the sobs that come so
convulsively when an old person weeps. The
silence around her struck her at last; and
she quieted herself to listen. No sound.
She looked. Her son sate by the table, his
arms thrown half across it, his head bent face
downwards.

"Oh, John!" she said, and she lifted his
face up. Such a strange, pallid look of
gloom was on it. For a moment it struck
her that this look was the forerunner of
death; but, as the rigidity melted out of the
countenance and the natural colour
returned, and she saw that he was himself once
again, all worldly mortification sank to
nothing before the consciousness of the great
blessing that he himself by his simple existence
was to her. She thanked God for this,
and this alone, with a fervour that swept
away all rebellious feelings from her mind.

He did not speak readily; but he went
and opened the shutters, and let the ruddy
light of dawn flood the room. But the wind
was in the east; the weather was piercing
cold, as it had been for weeks; there would
be no demand for light summer goods this
year. That hope for the revival of trade
must utterly be given up.

It was a great comfort to have had this
conversation with his mother; and to feel
sure that, however they might henceforward
keep silence on all these anxieties, they yet
understood each other's feelings, and were, if
not in harmony, not at least in discord with
each other, in their way of viewing them.
Fanny's husband was vexed at Thornton's
refusal to take any share in the
speculation which he had offered to him, and
withdrew from any possibility of being supposed
able to assist him with the ready money
which indeed the speculator needed for his
own venture.

There was nothing for it at last but that
which Mr. Thornton had dreaded for many
weeks; he had to give up the business in
which he had been so long engaged with so
much honour and success; and look out
for a subordinate situation. Marlborough
Mills and the adjacent dwelling were
held under a long lease; they must, if
possible, be relet. There was an immediate
choice of situations offered to Mr. Thornton.
Mr. Hamper would have been only too glad
to have secured him as a steady and
experienced partner for his son, whom he was
setting up with a large capital in a
neighbouring town; but the young man was
half-educated as regarded information, and wholly
uneducated as regarded any other responsibilities
than that of getting money, and
brutalised both as to his pleasures and his
pains. Mr. Thornton declined having any
share in a partnership, which would frustrate
what few plans he had that survived the
wreck of his fortunes. He would sooner
consent to be only a manager, where he could
have a certain degree of power beyond the
mere money-getting fact than have to fall in
with the tyrannical humours of a moneyed
partner with whom he felt sure that he
should quarrel in a few months. So he
waited, and stood on one side with profound
humility, as the news swept through the
Exchange, of the enormous fortune which
his brother-in-law had made by his daring
speculation. It was a nine days' wonder.
Success brought with it its worldly
consequence of extreme admiration. No one was
considered so wise and far-seeing as Mr. Watson.

CHAPTER THE FORTY-SIXTH.

IT was a hot summer's evening. Edith
came into Margaret's bedroom the first time
in her habit, the second ready dressed for
dinner. No one was there at first; the next
time Edith found Dixon laying out
Margaret's dress on the bed; but no Margaret.
Edith remained to fidget about.

"Oh, Dixon! not those horrid blue flowers
to that dead gold-coloured gown. What
taste! Wait a minute, and I will bring you
some pomegranate blossoms."

"It's not a dead gold-colour, ma'am. It's
a straw-colour. And blue always goes with
straw-colour" But Edith had brought the
brilliant scarlet flowers before Dixon had got
half through her remonstrance.

"Where is Miss Hale?" asked Edith, as
soon as she had tried the effect of the
garniture. "I can't think," she went on,
pettishly, "how my aunt allowed her to get into
such rambling habits in Milton! I'm sure