And Mrs. Ringrose sighed; but now her voice was abnormally calm, as with a grief too great for tears. 

 The long May evening had not yet closed in, and in the ensuing silence the cries of children in the street below, and the Last Waltz of Weber from the piano of the flat above, came with equal impertinence through the open windows. Mrs. Ringrose was in the rocking-chair in which she had nursed her only child. Her back was to the light, but she was rocking slowly. Her son stood over her with horror deepening in his face, but hers he could not see, only the white head which two years ago had been hardly grey. He dropped upon his knees and seized her hands; they were cold; and he missed her rings. 

 "Mother—mother! You don't think it too?" 

 No answer. 

 "You do! Oh, mother, how are we to go on living after this? What makes you think it? Quick! has he written to you?" 

 Mrs. Ringrose started violently. "Who put that into your head?" she cried out sharply. 

 "Nobody. I only wondered if there had been a letter, and I asked Lowndes, but he said you said there had not." 

 "Was that not enough for you?" 

 "Oh, mother, tell me the truth!" 

 The poor lady groaned aloud. 

 "God knows I meant to keep it to myself!" she whispered. "And yet—oh, how could I destroy his letter? And I thought you ought to see it—some day—not yet." 

 "Mother, I must see it now." 

 "You will never breathe it to a soul?" 

 "Never without your permission." 

 "No one must ever dream I heard one word after he left me!" 

 "No one ever shall." 

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