about to herself by her son's marriage; she
forced her thoughts into the accustomed
household grooves. The newly-married couple-
to-be would need fresh household stocks of
linen; and Mrs. Thornton had clothes-basket
upon clothes-basket, full of table-cloths and
napkins, brought in, and began to reckon up
the store. There was some confusion between
what was hers, and consequently marked
G. H. T. (for George and Hannah Thornton),
and what was her son's,—bought with his
money, marked with his initials. Some of
those marked G. H. T. were Dutch damask of
the old kind, exquisitely fine; none were like
them now. Mrs. Thornton stood looking at
them long,—they had been her pride when
she was first married. Then she knitted her
brows, and pinched and compressed her lips
tight, and carefully unpicked the G. H. She
went so far as to search for the Turkey-red
marking-thread to put in the new initials;
but it was all used,—and she had no heart to
send for any more just yet. So she looked
fixedly at vacancy; a series of visions passing
before her, in all of which her son was the
principal, the sole object,—her son, her pride,
her property. Still he did not come. Doubtless
he was with Miss Hale. The new love
was displacing her already from her place as
first in his heart. A terrible pain—a pang of
vain jealousy—shot through her: she hardly
knew if it was more physical or mental; but
it forced her to sit down. In a moment, she
was up again as straight as ever,—a grim
smile upon her face for the first time that
day, ready for the door opening, and the
rejoicing triumphant one, who should never
know the sore regret his mother felt at his
marriage. In all this there was little thought
enough of the future daughter-in-law as an
individual. She was to be John's wife. To take
Mrs. Thornton's place as mistress of the house
was only one of the rich consequences which
decked out the supreme glory; all household
plenty and comfort, all purple and fine linen,
honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
would all come as naturally as jewels on a
king's robe, and be as little thought of for
their separate value. To be chosen by John
would separate a kitchen-wench from the rest
of the world. And Miss Hale was not so
bad. If she had been a Milton lass, Mrs.
Thornton would have positively liked her.
She was pungent, and had taste, and spirit,
and flavour in her. True, she was sadly
prejudiced, and very ignorant; but that was to
be expected from her southern breeding. A
strange sort of mortified comparison of Fanny
with her, went on in Mrs. Thornton's mind;
and for once she spoke harshly to her
daughter; abused her roundly; and then, as
if by way of penance, she took up Henry's
Commentaries, and tried to fix her attention
on it, instead of pursuing the employment she
took pride and pleasure in, and continuing
her inspection of the table-linen.

His step at last! She heard him, even while
she thought she was finishing a sentence;
while her eye did pass over it, and her memory
could mechanically have repeated it word
for word, she heard him come in at the hall
door. Her quickened sense could interpret
every sound of motion: now he was at the
hat-stand, now at the very room-door. Why
did he pause? Let her know the worst.

Yet her head was down over the book;
she did not look up. He came close to the
table, and stood still there, waiting till she
should have finished the paragraph which
apparently absorbed her. By an effort she
looked up. "Well, John?"

He knew what that little speech meant.
But he had steeled himself. He longed to
reply with a jest; the bitterness of his heart
could have uttered one, but his mother
deserved better of him. He came round
behind her, so that she could not see his
looks, and, bending back her gray, stony
face, he kissed it, murmuring:

"No one loves me,—no one cares for me
but you mother."

He turned away and stood leaning his head
against the mantelpiece, tears forcing
themselves into his manly eyes. She stood up,—
she tottered. For the first time in her life,
the strong woman tottered. She put her
hands on his shoulders; she was a tall
woman. She looked into his face; she made
him look at her.

"Mother's love is given by God, John. It
holds fast for ever and ever. A girl's love is
like a puff of smoke,—it changes with every
wind. And she would not have you, my own
lad, would not she?" She set her teeth; she
showed them like a dog for the whole length
of her mouth. He shook his head.

"I am not fit for her, mother; I knew I
was not."

She ground out words between her closed
teeth. He could not hear what she said;
but the look in her eyes interpreted it to be a
curse,—if not as coarsely worded, as fell in
intent as ever was uttered. And yet her
heart leapt up light to know he was her own
again.

"Mother!" said he, hurriedly, "I cannot
hear a word against her. Spare me,—spare
me! I am very weak in my sore heart;—
I love her yet; I love her more than ever."

"And I hate her," said Mrs. Thornton in a
low fierce voice. "I tried not to hate her
when she stood between you and me, because,
—I said to myself,—she will make him
happy; and I would give my heart's blood
to do that. But now, I hate her for your
misery's sake. Yes, John, it's no use hiding
up your aching heart from me. I am the
mother that bore you, and your sorrow is my
agony; and if you don't hate her, I do."

"Then, mother, you make me love her
more. She is unjustly treated by you, and I
must make the balance even. But why do
we talk of love or hatred? She does not care
for me, and that is enough,—too much. Let