"I am always lonely, and I always shall be lonely to the end of time," said Mrs. Brand, slowly and bitterly. "However"--with an evident attempt to recover her self-possession--"I shall always be pleased to see you. Did--did--your father send you here to-night?" "No," said Janetta, remembering her errand. "He does not know----" "Does not know?" The pale woman again looked distressed. "Oh," she said, turning away with a sigh and biting her lip, "then I shall not see you again." "Indeed you will," said Janetta, warmly. "My father would never keep me away from any one who wanted me--and one of my mother's relations too. But I came to-night because I found this dear little boy outside your grounds. He tells me that his name is Julian Wyvis Brand, and that he is your son's little boy." For the first time Mrs. Brand turned her eyes upon the child. Hitherto she had not noticed him much, evidently thinking that he belonged to Janetta, and was also a visitor. But when she saw the boy's sweet little face and large dark eyes, she turned pale, and made a gesture as of warning or dislike. "Take him away! take him away," she said. "Yes, I can see that it is _her_ child--and his child too. She must be here too, and she has been the ruin of my boy's life!" And then she sank into a chair and burst into an agony of tears. Janetta felt, with an inexpressible pang, that she had set foot in the midst of some domestic tragedy, the like of which had never come within her ken before. She was conscious of a little recoil from it, such as is natural to a young girl who has not learnt by experience the meaning of sorrow; but the recoil was followed by a rush of that sympathy for which she had always shown a great capacity. Her instinct led her instantly to comfort and console. She knelt down beside the weeping woman and put one arm round her, drawing the little boy forward with her left hand as she spoke. "Oh, don't cry--don't cry!" she murmured. "He has come to be a joy and a comfort to you, and he wants you to love him too." "Won't you love me, grandmamma?" said the sweet childish voice. And Julian laid his hand on the poor woman's shaking knee. "Don't cry, grandmamma." It was this scene which met the eyes of Wyvis Brand when he turned the handle of the drawing-room door and walked into the room. His mother weeping, with a child before her, and a dark-haired girl on her knees with one arm round the weeping woman and one round the lovely child. It was a pretty picture, and Wyvis Brand was not insensible to its beauty. He stood, looking prom one to another of the group. "What does all this mean?" he asked, in somewhat harsh tones. His mother cried aloud and caught the child to her breast. "Oh, Wyvis, be kind--be merciful," she gasped. "This is your child--your child. You will not drive him away. She has left him at our door." Wyvis walked into the room, shut the door behind him, and leaned against it.