“God bless my boy! God bless my dearest boy!” cried the mother, with a poignant thrill of delight and disappointment. It was the desire of her heart that was being given to her; but yet so strangely transmogrified, so warped out of the fashion in which she had prayed for it, that it was hard to tell whether it was most pain or joy. And it was after this moment of agitation that her hands had fallen into her lap, though she had a great deal of work to do; and that John had resumed his walk with a relieved mind on the dark side of the room. He was relieved, and yet his heart was so heavy that it made his step heavy too. It sounded like the meditative pace of some old man burdened with care, instead of the elastic step of youth. And then, as silence, unbroken except by that step, came over them again, there fell into the quiet a sudden little sharp sound like the click of a latch. Mrs Mitford only heard it, and pricked up her ears with the quick alarm of a dweller in the country. “I wonder if the garden-gate is locked,” she said, softly; “it ought to be locked, now the nights are so dark.” John made no answer, he had not even remarked the sound; but his mother held her breath and listened with some uneasiness. Nothing followed for many minutes. Stillness as perfect as the darkness seemed to settle outside; but yet what was that?--a step upon the gravel? Mrs Mitford gave a nervous start, and then commanded herself. She had so often thought she heard steps on the gravel. “I think the window should be shut--it grows so chilly,” she went on; but she spoke very low, and still John took no notice. His step went on and on like a kind of chorus. Even his mother, although so near him, saw but a shadowy something walking up and down, and did not derive all the comfort she might have done from his presence. She would have risen to close the window herself, but a certain terror prevented her; and he took no notice, being absorbed in his own thoughts. At last Mrs Mitford’s nervousness got the better of her. She put out her hand and caught him as he passed behind her chair. “John,” she said, in a whisper, “listen. I think I hear some one in the garden. Hark! I am sure that was a step on the path.” “It is only fancy, mother,” said John. “But hush, hark!” she said, holding him fast; and he stood behind her chair, a mere shadow, and they listened, holding their breath. Silence, rustling, creeping, full of secret stirs and movements; and then there was a louder rustle, and a little trembling frightened voice, like a lost child, cried “Mamma!” The voice seemed to come out of the rose-bushes close to the window, plaintive, complaining, feeble, like a voice in a dream--“Mamma!” “Oh, who is that?” cried Mrs Mitford, all trembling. “Is it a spirit? Who is it that calls me mamma?”