‘What,’ she continued--‘what is this class distinction upon which we pride ourselves? What does it mean, if not that our opportunities lead us to see truths to which the eyes of the poor and ignorant are blind? Is there nothing in it, after all--in our pride of birth and station? That is what people are saying nowadays: you yourself have jested to me about our privileges. You almost make me dread that you were right. Look back at that man, whom I came to honour as my own father. He began life as a toiler with his hands. Only a fortnight ago he was telling me stories of his boyhood, of seventy years since. He was without education; his ideas of truth and goodness he had to find within his own heart. Could anything exceed the noble simplicity of his respect for me, for you boys? We were poor, but it seemed to him that we had from nature what no money could buy. He was wrong; his faith misled him. No, not wrong with regard to all of us; my boy Godfrey was indeed all that he believed. But think of himself; what advantage have we over him? I know no longer what to believe. Oh, Hubert!’ He left his chair and walked to a more distant part of the room, where he was beyond the range of lamp and firelight. Standing here, he pressed his hand against his side, still breathing hard, and with difficulty suppressing a groan. He came a step or two nearer. ‘Mother,’ he said, hurriedly, ‘I am still far from well. Let me leave you: speak to me again to-morrow.’ Mrs. Eldon made an effort to rise, looking anxiously into the gloom where he stood. She was all but standing upright--a thing she had not done for a long time--when Hubert sprang towards her, seizing her hands, then supporting her in his arms. Her self-command gave way at length, and she wept. Hubert placed her gently in the chair and knelt beside her. He could find no words, but once or twice raised his face and kissed her. ‘What caused your illness?’ she asked, speaking as one wearied with suffering. She lay back, and her eyes were closed. ‘I cannot say,’ he answered. ‘Do not speak of me. In your last letter there was no account of how he died.’ ‘It was in church, at the morning service. The pew-opener found him sitting there dead, when all had gone away.’ ‘But the vicar could see into the pew from the pulpit? The death must have been very peaceful.’ ‘No, he could not see; the front curtains were drawn.’ ‘Why was that, I wonder?’ Mrs. Eldon shook her head. ‘Are you in pain?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Why do you breathe so strangely?’ ‘A little pain. Oh, nothing; I will see Manns to-morrow.’ His mother gazed long and steadily into his eyes, and this time he bore her look. ‘Mother, you have not kissed me,’ he whispered. ‘And cannot, dear. There is too much between us.’ His head fell upon her lap. ‘Hubert!’ He pressed her hand. ‘How shall I live when you have gone from me again? When you say good-bye, it will be as if I parted from you for ever.’ Hubert was silent.