in white, with crimson braid about her neck and wrists, and a red feather
in the hat so jauntily perched above the low forehead--altogether a
maiden exceedingly to be desired. Perhaps, somewhere, she was standing
before a mirror at that moment. But what sort of a flush is it upon her
cheeks? What sort of a look is it in her eyes? What is this fell shadow
that has passed upon her face?

By the time Henry was ready to leave the poor mother had ceased her
upbraidings, and had yielded quite to the sense of a sympathy, founded in
a loss as great as her own, which his presence gave her. Re was the only
one in all the world from whom she could have accepted sympathy, and in
her lonely desolation it was very sweet. And at the last, when, as he was
about to go, her grief burst forth afresh, he put his arm around her and
drew her head to his shoulder, and tenderly soothed her, and stroked the
thin grey hair, till at last the long, shuddering sobs grew a little
calmer. It was natural that he should be the one to comfort her. It was
his privilege. In the adoption of sorrow, and not of joy, he had taken
this mother of his love to be his mother.

"Don't give her up," he said. "I will find her if she is alive."




CHAPTER VII.


A search, continued unintermittingly for a week among the hotels and
lodging-houses of Boston, proved finally successful. He found her. As she
opened the door of the miserable apartment which she occupied, and saw