I lifted my hat with profound respect, and looked long and sadly upon her. It was for the last time; for she followed her husband to India, and I never saw her again. Then whistling to my dogs, I pursued my solitary way. CHAPTER XXI. MY MOTHER AND THE SQUIRE. From that hour I became a prey to constant remorse. My health declined, and my mother at last remarked the change in my appearance; but at that time I am certain she had no idea of the cause. "Noah," said she, one night, as we were crouching over the fire, for it was winter, and very cold,--"you are much changed of late. You look ill, and out of spirits; you eat little, and speak less. My dear son, what in the world ails you?" "I am tired of this place, Mother. I should like to sell off, and go to America." "And leave me for ever?" "You, of course, would go with me." "Never!" said my mother, emphatically. "Of all places in the world, I cannot go there." I looked up inquiringly. "I will give you my reasons," she continued. "Listen to me, Noah. I have never told you anything about myself; but, before I die, it is only right that you should know all. My husband, whose name you bear, is not, to my knowledge, dead. If living, he is in America." "Oh, that I had been his son!" I groaned; "but, Mother, proceed--proceed." "To make matters intelligible to you, it is necessary that I should go back to my early days. I was the only child of a poor shoemaker in St. Alban's. My father was reckoned a good hand at his trade, but he was sadly addicted to drink. For ten years before he died, I never remember his going one night to his bed sober. My poor mother was a neat, quiet little woman, who did all in her power to keep things straight. But first one piece of household furniture went, and then another, until we were left with bare walls and an empty cupboard. "'Annie,' said my mother, 'this won't do. You must go out and work for your living: you cannot stay at home and starve.' "'And you, Mother?' "'God will take care of me, my child. I cannot leave your father. I must work for him: he is my husband; and, in spite of this dreadful vice, I love him still.' "Her constancy and patient endurance under a thousand privations was wonderful. "I was reckoned a very pretty girl: all the neighbours said so, and I thought so myself. They were sorry for our altered circumstances. They respected my mother; and, though they blamed my father, they pitied him as well as blamed (he had been a general favourite before he became lost to himself and us,) and did all in their power to assist my mother in her distress. One of these sympathising friends was the dressmaker employed by the great lady of the parish. This woman got me into service as waiting-maid to the young ladies at the Grange.