A little later, when the lesser prizes were being disposed of, and the interest of the proceedings was not so all-absorbing--as I just sat in placid ecstasy, thinking of nothing but my own happiness--a movement in front of me brought his poor mother to my mind. She had ceased to fidget, and I had forgotten to notice her. Now she rose slowly, in a fumbling sort of way, remarking to a lady near her that the heat of the hall was insufferable and was making her faint. It was very hot, and she looked faint, with all the colour gone from her cheeks and her lips twitching and trembling; but, oh, _I_ knew what the trouble was! Poor, stricken soul! She felt just as I should have felt had I been in her place--just as I had felt a year ago when told that that pig-faced Middleton boy had ousted Harry--and my heart bled for her. Of course she pretended not to see me as she passed out--I should have done the same had our positions been reversed--and must have almost wanted to murder me, indeed; but--well, mothers have a fellow-feeling at these times, under all the feelings common to humanity at large. I could not resist the impulse that came to me. She had no sooner disappeared through the nearest door, seeking the fresh air for her faintness, than I, defiant of my daughter's dumb protests, got up and went out after her. She was leaning against the grey wall, holding her handkerchief to her eyes. When she heard me she turned and glared, like a strange cat that you have penned into a corner. The next moment we were in each other's arms, and she was sobbing on my neck with the abandonment of a child. And we have been the greatest friends ever since. CHAPTER VI. DEPOSED. The little sound that is as common as silence--a familiar step, a murmured word, an opening door--one hears it a thousand times with contented indifference, as one hears the singing of the tea-kettle. But one day it falls on the heart as well as on the ear, like the stroke of a swift sword. It seems exactly the same, but one knows at once that it is not the same. In the twentieth part of a second one recognises the voice of a dire calamity--especially if one is a mother, and has heard it before. Tom came into the house by way of the kitchen, and I heard him say to Jane, in quite a quiet tone, "Where's Mrs. Braye?" That was all. I sprang from my chair, wild with terror, dropping my needlework to the floor. For I knew--I knew--I didn't want to be told--that something had happened to Harry. My boy! my boy! I had been scolding him, only an hour ago, for making love to Lily's governess--a minx, whom I had just requested to find another situation--and he had slammed the door almost in my face on leaving me. I had been longing for Tom to come in, that I might tell him all about it, and have a little cry on his shoulder, and my dignity and authority in the house supported; but now that he was here my tongue was paralysed. And I had no grievance, but an immeasurable remorse.