“Just after twelve I saw a woman coming hastily up Front street. As she came to a pause in the light which streamed from the open door, I knew her for Madam Marie, as she had taught me to call her. She wore a _caleche_ hood, fallen back so that I saw her hair, half tumbled from under the thin gauze cap worn on the top of the head by most Quakers. She was clad quite too slightly, and had for wrap only a thin, gray silk shawl. “‘_Mon Dieu!_’ she exclaimed, ‘I had to come. Jack, is he here? _Il faut que je monte_, I must go upstairs.’ In excitement she was apt to talk French, and then to translate. ‘Let me go,’ said I; but she cried out, ‘No, no! come!’ “There were many rough folks without, and others called together by the noise above, and no wonder. I said,’ Come in; I will go up with thee.’ She pushed me aside, and, with staring eyes, cried, _‘Ou est l’escalier?’_ As we went through the coffee-room, the loungers looked at her with surprise. She followed me without more words, ran by me on the stairs, and in a moment beat fiercely on the door, crying, _‘Ouvrez!_ open! quick!’ Then there was that madhouse scene.” And this was how it came about, as Jack has here told, that, still hot and angry, but much sobered, I, her son, walked beside my mother till we came to our door, and Jack left us, saying: “Wilt thou see me to-morrow?” I said, “Yes. God bless thee! Thou art the real son,” and we entered. Then it was sweet to see her; she said no word of reproach except, “_Il ne faut pas me donner ton baiser du soir._ No, no; I am not to be kissed.” And so I went, sorrowful and still dizzy, up to my sleepless couch. At the first gray light of dawn I rose, and was soon away half a mile from shore in my boat. As I came up from my first plunge in the friendly river, and brushed the water from my eyes, I do assure you the world seemed different. The water was very cold, but I cared nothing for that. I went home another and a better man, with hope and trust and self-repose for company. That hour in the water at early morn forever after seemed to me a mysterious separation between two lives, like a mighty baptismal change. Even now I think of it with a certain awe. I pulled home as the sun rose, and lingered about until our servants came in for the early worship of the day. Soon I had the mother’s kiss, and underwent a quick, searching look, after which she nodded gaily, and said, “_Est-ce que tout est bien, mon fils?_ Is all well with thee, my son?” I said, “Yes--yes.” I heard her murmur a sweet little prayer in her beloved French tongue. Then she began to read a chapter. I looked up amazed. It was the prodigal’s story.