The morning sun filled the front rooms of the flat, and the heavy hearts within were the lighter for its cheery rays. Sorrow may outlive the night, and small joy come in the morning; but yet, if you are young and sanguine, and the month be May, and the heavens unspotted, and the air nectar, then you may suddenly find yourself thrilling with an unwarrantable delight in mere life, and that in the very midst of life's miseries. It was so with young Harry Ringrose, on the morning following his tragic home-coming; it was even so with Harry's mother, who was as young at heart as her boy, and fully as sanguine in temperament. They had come down from the high ground of the night. The everyday mood had supervened. Harry was unpacking his ostrich eggs in the narrow passage, and thoroughly enjoying a pipe; in her own room his mother sat cleaning her silver, incredible contentment in her face, because her boy was in and out all the morning, and the little flat was going to bring them so close together. 

 "That's the lot," said Harry when the bed was covered with the eggs. "Now, mother, which do you think the best pair?" 

 "They all look the same to me." 

 "They are not. Look at this pair in my hands. Can't you see that they're much bigger and finer than the rest?" 

 "I daresay they are." 

 "They're for you, mother, these two." 

 And he set them on the table among the spoons and forks and plate-powder. She kissed him, but looked puzzled. 

 "What shall you do with the rest?" 

 "Sell them! Five shillings a pair; five tens are fifty; that's two-pound-ten straight away." 

 "I won't have you sell them!" 

 "They are mine, mother, and I must." 

 "You'll be sorry for it when you have a good situation." 

 "Ah, when!" said Harry, and he was out again with a laugh. 

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