Chapter 1

THE GARRET AND THE GARDEN, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.

CHAPTER ONE.

THE GARRET AND THE GARDEN OR LOW LIFE HIGH UP.

SUDDEN FRIENDSHIPS.

In the midst of the great wilderness--we might almost say the wilds--of
that comparatively unknown region which lies on the Surrey side of the
Thames, just above London Bridge, there sauntered one fine day a big
bronzed seaman of middle age. He turned into an alley, down which,
nautically speaking, he rolled into a shabby little court. There he
stood still for a few seconds and looked around him as if in quest of
something.

It was a miserable poverty-stricken court, with nothing to commend it to
the visitor save a certain air of partial-cleanliness and
semi-respectability, which did not form a feature of the courts in its
neighbourhood.

"I say, Capting," remarked a juvenile voice close at hand, "you've bin
an sailed into the wrong port."

The sailor glanced in all directions, but was unable to see the owner of
the voice until a slight cough--if not a suppressed laugh--caused him to
look up, when he perceived the sharp, knowing, and dirty face of a small
boy, who calmly contemplated him from a window not more than a foot
above his head. Fun, mischief, intelligence, precocity sat enthroned on
the countenance of that small boy, and suffering wrinkled his young
brow.

"How d'ee know I'm in the wrong port--monkey?" demanded the sailor.

"'Cause there ain't no grog-shop in it--gorilla!" retorted the boy.

There is a mysterious but well-known power of attraction between kindred
spirits which induces them to unite, like globules of quicksilver, at
the first moment of contact. Brief as was this interchange of
politenesses, it sufficed to knit together the souls of the seaman and
the small boy. A mutual smile, nod, and wink sealed, as it were, the
sudden friendship.

"Come now, younker," said the sailor, thrusting his hands into his
coat-pockets, and leaning a little forward with legs well apart, as if
in readiness to counteract the rolling of the court in a heavy sea,
"there's no occasion for you an' me to go beatin' about--off an' on.
Let's come to close quarters at once. I haven't putt in here to look
for no grog-shop--"

"W'ich I didn't say you 'ad," interrupted the boy.

"No more you did, youngster. Well, what I dropped in here for was to
look arter an old woman."

"If you'd said a young 'un, now, I might 'ave b'lieved you," returned
the pert urchin.

"You _may_ believe me, then, for I wants a young 'un too."

"Well, old salt," rejoined the boy, resting his ragged arms on the
window-sill, and looking down on the weather-beaten man with an
expression of patronising interest, "you've come to the right shop,
anyhow, for that keemodity. In Lun'on we've got old women by the
thousand, an' young uns by the million, to say nuffin o' middle-aged uns
an' chicks. Have 'ee got a partikler pattern in yer eye, now, or d'ee
on'y want samples?"

"What's your name, lad?" asked the sailor.

"That depends, old man. If a beak axes me, I've got a wariety o' names,
an' gives 'im the first as comes to 'and. W'en a gen'leman axes me, I'm
more partikler--I makes a s'lection."

"Bein' neither a beak nor a gentleman, lad, what would you say your name
was to _me_?"

"Tommy Splint," replied the boy promptly. "Splint, 'cause w'en I was
picked up, a small babby, at the work'us door, my left leg was broke,
an' they 'ad to putt it up in splints; Tommy, 'cause they said I was
like a he-cat; w'ich was a lie!"

"Is your father alive, Tommy?"

"'Ow should _I_ know? I've got no father nor mother--never had none as
I knows on; an' what's more, I don't want any. I'm a horphing, _I_ am,
an' I prefers it. Fathers an' mothers is often wery aggrawatin';
they're uncommon hard to manage w'en they're bad, an' a cause o' much
wexation an' worry to child'n w'en they're good; so, on the whole, I
think we're better without 'em. Chimleypot Liz is parent enough for
me."

"And who may chimney-pot Liz be?" asked the sailor with sudden interest.

"H'm!" returned the boy with equally sudden caution and hesitancy. "I
didn't say _chimney-pot_ but _chimley-pot_ Liz. W'at is she? W'y,
she's the ugliest old ooman in this great meetropilis, an' she's got the
jolliest old 'art in Lun'on. Her skin is wrinkled equal to the
ry-nossris at the Zoo--I seed that beast once at a Sunday-school treat--
an' her nose has been tryin' for some years past to kiss her chin, w'ich
it would 'ave managed long ago, too, but for a tooth she's got in the
upper jaw. She's on'y got one; but, my, that _is_ a fang! so loose that
you'd expect it to be blowed out every time she coughs. It's a reg'lar
grinder an' cutter an' stabber all in one; an' the way it works--
sometimes in the mouth, sometimes outside the lip, now an' then straight
out like a ship's bowsprit--is most amazin'; an' she drives it about
like a nigger slave. Gives it no rest. I do declare I wouldn't be that
there fang for ten thousand a year. She's got two black eyes, too, has
old Liz, clear an' bright as beads--fit to bore holes through you w'en
she ain't pleased; and er nose is ooked--. But, I say, before I tell
you more about 'er, I wants to know wot you've got to do with 'er? An'
w'at's your name? I've gave you mine. Fair exchange, you know."

"True, Tommy, that's only right an' fair. But I ain't used to lookin'
up when discoorsin'. Couldn't you come down here an' lay alongside?"

"No, old salt, I couldn't; but you may come up here if you like. You'll
be the better of a rise in the world, won't you? The gangway lays just
round the corner; but mind your sky-scraper for the port's low. There's
a seat in the winder here. Go ahead; starboard your helm, straight up,
then 'ard-a-port, steady, mind your jib-boom, splice the main-brace,
heave the main-deck overboard, and cast anchor 'longside o' me!"

Following these brief directions as far as was practicable, the sailor
soon found himself on the landing of the stair, where Tommy was seated
on a rickety packing-case awaiting him.

"Now, lad," said the man, seating himself beside his new friend, "from
what you tells me, I think that chimney-pot--"

"Chimley," remarked the boy, correcting.

"Well, then, chimley-pot Liz, from your account of her, must be the very
woman I wants. I've sought for her far an' wide, alow and aloft, an'
bin directed here an' there an' everywhere, except the right where,
'till now. But I'll explain." The man paused a moment as if to
consider, and it became evident to the boy that his friend was labouring
under some degree of excitement, which he erroneously put down to drink.

"My name," continued the sailor, "is Sam Blake--second mate o' the
_Seacow_, not long in from China. I didn't ship as mate. Bein' a
shipwrecked seaman, you see--"

"Shipwrecked!" exclaimed the boy, with much interest expressed in his
sharp countenance.

"Ay, lad, shipwrecked; an' not the first time neither, but I was keen to
get home, havin' bin kep' a prisoner for an awful long spell by
pirates--"

"Pints!" interrupted the boy again, as he gazed in admiration at his
stalwart friend; "but," he added, "I don't believe you. It's all barn.
There ain't no pints now; an' you think you've got hold of a green un."

"Tommy!" said the sailor in a remonstrative tone, "did I ever deceive
you?"

"Never," replied the boy fervently; "leastwise not since we 'come
acquaint 'arf an hour back."

"Look here," said Sam Blake, baring his brawny left arm to the elbow and
displaying sundry deep scars which once must have been painful wounds.
"An' look at this," he added, opening his shirt-front and exposing a
mighty chest that was seamed with similar scars in all directions.
"That's what the pirates did to me an' my mates--torturin' of us afore
killin' us."

"Oh, I say!" exclaimed the urchin, in a tone in which sympathy was
mingled with admiration; "tell us all about it, Sam."

"Not now, my lad; business first--pleasure arterwards."

"I prefers pleasure first an' business arter, Sam. 'Owever, 'ave it yer
own way."

"Well, you see," continued the sailor, turning down his, "w'en I went to
sea _that_ time, I left a wife an' a babby behind me; but soon arter I
got out to China I got a letter tellin' me that my Susan was dead, and
that the babby had bin took charge of by a old nurse in the family where
Susan had been a housemaid. You may be sure my heart was well-nigh
broke by the news, but I comforted myself wi' the thought o' gittin'
home again an' takin' care o' the dear babby--a gal, it was, called
Susan arter its mother. It was at that time I was took by the pirates
in the Malay Seas--now fifteen long years gone by."

"W'at! an' you ain't bin 'ome or seed yer babby for fifteen years?"
exclaimed Tommy Splint.

"Not for fifteen long year," replied his friend. "You see, Tommy, the
pirates made a slave o' me, an' took me up country into the interior of
one o' their biggest islands, where I hadn't a chance of escapin'. But
I did manage to escape at last, through God's blessin', an' got to
Hong-Kong in a small coaster; found a ship--the _Seacow_-about startin'
for England short-handed, an' got a berth on board of her. On the
voyage the second mate was washed overboard in a gale, so, as I was a
handy chap, the cap'en he promoted me, an' now I'm huntin' about for my
dear little one all over London. But it's a big place is London."

"Yes; an' I suspect that you'll find your little un raither a big un too
by this time."

"No doubt," returned the seaman with an absent air; then, looking with
sudden earnestness into his little companion's face, he added, "Well,
Tommy Splint, as I said just now, I've cruised about far an' near after
this old woman as took charge o' my babby without overhaulin' of her,
for she seems to have changed her quarters pretty often; but I keep up
my hopes, for I do feel as if I'd run her down at last--her name was
Lizbeth Morley--"

"Oho!" exclaimed Tommy Splint with a look of sharp intelligence; "so you
think that chimleypot Liz may be your Lizbeth and our Susy your babby!"

"I'm more than half inclined to think that, my boy," returned the
sailor, growing more excited.

"_Is_ the old woman's name Morley?"

"Dun know. Never heard nobody call her nothin' but Liz."

"And how about Susan?"

"That's the babby?" said the boy with a grin.

"Yes--yes," said Sam anxiously.

"Well, that babby's about five fut four now, without 'er boots. You see
'uman creeturs are apt to grow considerable in fifteen years--ain't
they?"

"But is her name Blake?" demanded the seaman. "Not as I knows of.
Susy's wot we all calls 'er--so chimley-pot Liz calls 'er, an' so she
calls 'erself, an' there ain't another Susy like her for five miles
round. But come up, Sam, an' I'll introduce ee--they're both over'ead."

So saying the lively urchin grasped his new friend by the hand and led
him by a rickety staircase to the "rookeries" above.

CHAPTER TWO.

FLOWERS IN THE DESERT.

Beauty and ugliness form a contrast which is presented to us every day
of our lives, though, perhaps, we may not be much impressed by the fact.
And this contrast is presented in ever-varying aspects.

We do not, however, draw the reader's attention to one of the striking
aspects of the contrast--such as is presented by the hippopotamus and
the gazelle, or the pug with the "bashed" nose and the Italian
greyhound. It is to one of the more delicate phases that we would
point--to that phase of the contrast wherein the fight between the two
qualities is seen progressing towards victory, and ugliness is not only
overborne but overwhelmed by beauty.

For this purpose we convey the reader to a scene of beauty that might
compare favourably with any of the most romantic spots on this fair
earth--on the Riviera, or among the Brazilian wilds, or, for that
matter, in fairyland itself.

It is a garden--a remarkably small garden to be sure, but one that is
arranged with a degree of taste and a display of fancy that betokens the
gardener a genius. Among roses and mignonette, heliotrope, clematis and
wallflower, chrysanthemums, verbenas and sweet-peas are intertwined, on
rustic trellis-work, the rich green leaves of the ivy and the graceful
Virginia creeper in such a manner that the surroundings of the miniature
garden are completely hidden from view, and nothing but the bright blue
sky is visible, save where one little opening in the foliage reveals the
prospect of a grand glittering river, where leviathans of the deep and
small fry of the shallows, of every shape and size, disport themselves
in the blaze of a summer sun.

Beauty meets the eye wherever turned, but, let the head of the observer
be extended ever so little beyond the charmed circle of that garden, and
nearly all around is ugliness supreme! For this is a garden on the roof
of an old house; the grand river is the Thames, alive with the shipping
of its world-wide commerce, and all around lies that interminable forest
of rookery chimneys, where wild ungainly forms tell of the insane and
vain efforts of man to cope with smoke; where wild beasts--in the form
of cats--hold their nightly revels, imitating the yells of agonised
infants, filling the dreams of sleepers with ideas of internal thunder
or combustion, and driving the sleepless mad!

Susy--our Susy--is the cause of this miracle of beauty in the midst of
misery; this glowing gem in a setting of ugliness. It is her modest
little head that has bent over the boxes of earth, which constitute her
landed property; her pretty little fingers which have trained the stems
and watered the roots and cherished the flowers until the barren
house-top has been made to blossom like the rose. And love, as usual,
has done it all--love to that very ugly old woman, chimney-pot Liz, who
sits on the rustic chair in the midst of the garden enjoying it all.

For Liz has been a mother to that motherless bairn from her earliest
years. She has guarded, fed, and clothed her from infancy; taught her
from God's Book the old, old story of redeeming love, and led her to the
feet of Jesus. It would be strange indeed if Susy did not love the ugly
old woman, until at last she came to regard the wrinkles as veritable
lines of beauty; the nut-cracker nose and chin as emblems of persistent
goodness; the solitary wobbling tooth as a sign of unconquerable
courage; and the dark eyes--well, it required no effort of imagination
to change the character of the old woman's eyes, for they had always
been good, kindly, expressive eyes, and were at that date as bright and
lively as when she was sweet sixteen.

But chimney-pot Liz was poor--desperately poor, else she had not been
there, for if heaven was around and within her, assuredly something very
like pandemonium was underneath her, and it not unfrequently appeared as
if the evil spirits below were surging to and fro in a fierce endeavour
to burst up the whole place, and hurl the old woman with her garden into
the river.

Evil spirits indeed formed the dread foundation of the old woman's
abode; for, although her own court was to some extent free from the
curse, this particular pile of building, of which the garden formed the
apex, had a grog-shop, opening on another court, for its
foundation-stone. From that sink of iniquity, literal and unmitigated--
though not unadulterated--spirits of evil rose like horrid fumes from
the pit, and maddened the human spirits overhead. These, descending to
the foundation-den, soaked themselves in the material spirit and carried
it up, until the whole tenement seemed to reek and reel under its malign
influence.

But, strange to say, the riot did not rise as high as the garden on the
roof--only the echoes reached that little paradise.

Now it is a curious almost unaccountable fact, which no one would ever
guess, that a teapot was the cause of this--at least a secondary cause--
for a teapot was the chief instrument in checking, if not turning, the
tide of evil. Yes, chimney-pot Liz held her castle in the very midst of
the enemy, almost single-handed, with no visible weapon of offence or
defence but a teapot! We say visible, because Liz did indeed possess
other and very powerful weapons which were not quite so obvious--such
as, the Word of God in her memory, the love of God in her heart, and the
Spirit of God in her soul.

To the outside world, however, the teapot was her weapon and shield.

We have read of such a weapon before, somewhere in the glorious annals
of city missions, but just now we are concerned only with the teapot of
our own Liz of chimney-pot notoriety.

Seated, as we have said, in a rustic chair, gazing through the foliage
at the busy Thames, and plying her knitting needles briskly, while the
sun seemed to lick up and clear away the fogs and smoke of the great
city, chimney-pot Liz enjoyed her thoughts until a loud clatter
announced that Susy had knocked over the watering-pot.

"Oh! granny" (thus she styled her), "I'm _so_ sorry! So stupid of me!
Luckily there's no water in it."

"Never mind, dear," said the old woman in a soft voice, and with a smile
which for a moment exposed the waste of gums in which the solitary fang
stood, "I've got no nerves--never had any, and hope I never may have.
By the way, that reminds me--Is the tea done, Susy?"

"Yes, not a particle left," replied the girl, rising from her floral
labours and thereby showing that her graceful figure matched well with
her pretty young face. It was a fair face, with golden hair divided in
the middle and laid smooth over her white brow, not sticking confusedly
out from it like the tangled scrub on a neglected common, or the frontal
locks of a Highland bull.

"That's bad, Susy," remarked old Liz, pushing the fang about with her
tongue for a few seconds. "You see, I had made up my mind to go down
to-night and have a chat with Mrs Rampy, and I wouldn't like to visit
her without my teapot. The dear old woman is so fond of a cup of tea,
and she don't often get it good, poor thing. No, I shouldn't like to go
without my teapot, it would disappoint her, you know--though I've no
doubt she would be glad to see me even empty-handed."

"I should just think she would!" said Susy with a laugh, as she stooped
to arrange some of the fastenings of her garden, "I should just think
she would. Indeed, I doubt if that _dear_ old woman would be alive now
but for you, granny."

The girl emphasised the "dear" laughingly, for Mrs Rampy was one of
those middle-aged females of the destitute class whose hearts have been
so steeled against their kind by suffering and drink as to render them
callous to most influences. The proverbial "soft spot" in Mrs Rampy's
heart was not reached until an assault had been made on it by
chimney-pot Liz with her teapot. Even then it seemed as if the softness
of the spot were only of the gutta-percha type.

"Perhaps not, perhaps not my dear," returned old Liz, with that pleased
little smile with which she was wont to recognise a philanthropic
success a smile which always had the effect of subduing the tooth, and
rendering the plain face almost beautiful.

Although bordering on the lowest state of destitution--and that is a
remarkably low state in London!--old Liz had an air of refinement about
her tones, words, and manner which was very different from that of the
poor people around her. This was not altogether, though partly, due to
her Christianity. The fact is, the old woman had "seen better days."
For fifty years she had been nurse in an amiable and wealthy family, the
numerous children of which seemed to have been born to bloom for a few
years in the rugged garden of this world, and then be transplanted to
the better land. Only the youngest son survived. He entered the army
and went to India--that deadly maelstrom which has swallowed up so much
of British youth and blood and beauty! When the old couple became
bankrupt and died, the old nurse found herself alone and almost
destitute in the world.

It is not our purpose to detail here the sad steps by which she
descended to the very bottom of the social ladder, taking along with her
Susan, her adopted daughter and the child of a deceased fellow-servant.
We merely tell thus much to account for her position and her partial
refinement--both of which conditions she shared with Susan.

"Now then," said the latter, "I must go, granny. Stickle and Screw are
not the men to overlook faults. If I'm a single minute late I shall
have to pay for it."

"And quite right, Susy, quite right. Why should Stickle and Screw lose
a minute of their people's work? Their people would be angry enough if
they were to be paid a penny short of their wages! Besides, the firm
employs over two hundred hands, and if every one of these was to be late
a minute there would be two hundred minutes gone--nigh four hours, isn't
it? You should be able to count that right off, Susy, havin' been so
long at the Board-school."

"I don't dispute it, granny," said the girl with a light laugh, as she
stood in front of a triangular bit of looking-glass tying on her poor
but neatly made hat. "And I am usually three or four minutes before my
time, but Stickle and Screw are hard on us in other ways, so different
from Samson and Son, where Lily Hewat goes. Now, I'm off. I'll be sure
to be back by half-past nine or soon after."

As the girl spoke, footsteps were heard ascending the creaky wooden
stair. Another moment and Tommy Splint entering with a theatrical air,
announced--

"A wisitor!"

He was closely followed by Sam Blake, who no sooner beheld Susy than he
seemed to become paralysed, for he stood gazing at her as if in eager
but helpless amazement.

Susy was a good deal surprised at this, but feeling that if she were to
wait for the clearing up of the mystery she would infallibly be late in
reaching the shop of the exacting Stickle and Screw, she swept lightly
past the seaman with a short laugh, and ran down-stairs.

Without a word of explanation Sam sprang after her, but, although smart
enough on the shrouds and ladders of shipboard, he failed to accommodate
himself to the stairs of rookeries, and went down, as he afterwards
expressed it, "by the run," coming to an anchor at the bottom in a
sitting posture. Of course the lithe and active Susy escaped him, and
also escaped being too late by only half a minute.

"Never mind, she'll be back again between nine and ten o'clock, unless
they keep her late," said old Liz, after Sam had explained who he was,
and found that Susy was indeed his daughter, and chimney-pot Liz the
nurse who had tended his wife to her dying day, and afterwards adopted
his child.

"I never was took aback so in all my life," said the seaman, sitting
down beside the old woman, and drawing a sigh so long that it might have
been likened to a moderate breeze. "She's the born image o' what her
dear mother was when I first met her. _My_ Susy! Well, it's not every
poor seaman as comes off a long voyage an' finds that he's fallen heir
to a property like _that_!"

"You may well be proud of her," said old Liz, "and you'll be prouder yet
when you come to know her."

"I know it, and I'm proud to shake your hand, mother, an' thankee kindly
for takin' such care o' my helpless lassie. You say she'll be home
about ten?"

"Yes, if she's not kep' late. She always comes home about that time.
Meanwhile you'll have something to eat. Tommy, boy, fetch out the loaf
and the cheese and the teapot. You know where to find 'em. Tommy's an
orphan, Cap'n Blake, that I've lately taken in hand. He's a good boy is
Tommy, but rather wild."

"Wot can you expect of a horphing?" said the boy with a grin, for he had
overheard the latter remark, though it was intended only for the
visitor's ear. "But I say, granny, there ain't no cheese here, 'cept a
bit o' rind that even a mouse would scorn to look at."

"Never mind, bring out the loaf, Tommy."

"An' there ain't no use," continued the boy, "o' bringin' out the
teapot, 'cause there ain't a grain o' tea nowheres."

"Oh! I forgot," returned old Liz, slightly confused; "I've just run out
o' tea, Cap'n Blake, an' I haven't a copper at _present_ to buy any,
but--"

"Never mind that old girl; and I ain't quite captain yet, though
trendin' in that direction. You come out along wi' me, Tommy. I'll
soon putt these matters to rights."

Old Liz could not have remonstrated even if she had wished to do so, for
her impulsive visitor was gone in a moment followed by his extremely
willing little friend. They returned in quarter of an hour.

"There you are," said the seaman, taking the articles one by one from a
basket carried by Tommy; "a big loaf, pound o' butter, ditto tea, three
pound o' sugar, six eggs, hunk o' cheese, paper o' salt--forgot the
pepper; never mind."

"You've bin an' forgot the sassengers too--but here they are," said
Tommy, plucking the delectable viands from the bottom of the basket with
a look of glee, and laying them on the table.

Chimney-pot Liz did not look surprised; she only smiled and nodded her
head approvingly, for she felt that Sam Blake understood the right thing
to do and did it.

Soon the celebrated teapot was going the round, full swing, while the
air was redolent of fried sausage and cheese mingled with the perfume of
roses and mignonette, for this meal, you must know, was eaten in the
garden in the afternoon sunshine, while the cooking--done in the attic
which opened on the garden--was accomplished by Sam assisted by Tommy.

"Well, you _air_ a trump," said the latter to the former as he sat down,
greasy and glowing, beside the seaman at the small table where old Liz
presided like a humble duchess.

We need hardly say that the conversation was animated, and that it bore
largely on the life-history of the absent Susy.

"You're quite sure that she'll be here by ten?" asked the excited father
for the fiftieth time that afternoon.

"Yes, I'm sure of it--unless she's kep' late," answered Liz.

But Susy did _not_ return at the usual hour, so her impatient father was
forced to conclude that she _had_ been "kep' late"--too late. In his
anxiety he resolved to sally forth under the guidance of Tommy Splint to
inquire for the missing Susy at the well-known establishment of Stickle
and Screw.

Let us anticipate him in that quest. At the usual hour that night the
employes of Stickle and Screw left work and took their several ways home
ward. Susy had the company of her friend Lily Hewat as far as Chancery
Lane. Beyond that point she had to go alone. Being summer-time, the
days were long, and Susy was one of those strong-hearted and
strong-nerved creatures who have a tendency to fear nothing.

She had just passed over London Bridge and turned into a labyrinth of
small streets on the Surrey side of the river, when a drunken man met
her in a darkish and deserted alley through which she had to pass. The
man seized her by the arm. Susy tried to free herself. In the struggle
that ensued she fell with a loud shriek, and struck her head on the
kerb-stone so violently that she was rendered insensible. Seeing this,
the man proceeded to take from her the poor trinkets she had about her,
and would have succeeded in robbing her but for the sudden appearance on
the scene of a lowland Scot clad in a homespun suit of shepherd's
plaid--a strapping ruddy youth of powerful frame, fresh from the braes
of Yarrow.

CHAPTER THREE.

A VISITOR FROM THE NORTH.

How that Lowland Scot came to the rescue just in the nick of time is
soon told.

"Mither," said he one evening, striding into his father's dwelling--a
simple cottage on a moor--and sitting down in front of a bright old
woman in a black dress, whose head was adorned with that frilled and
baggy affair which is called in Scotland a mutch, "I'm gawin' to
Lun'on."

"Hoots! havers, David."

"It's no' havers, mither. Times are guid. We've saved a pickle siller.
Faither can spare me for a wee while--sae I'm aff to Lun'on the morn's
mornin'."

"An' what for?" demanded Mrs Laidlaw, letting her hands and the sock on
which they were engaged drop on her lap, as she looked inquiringly into
the grave countenance of her handsome son.