I'd like to see her poor as poverty, and come begging to the door.' "And so on, Missy, in her wretched, selfish moan of disappointed greed, while the poor boy stood stunned and almost stupefied. It did not seem to him at all real or true; he felt as if he must wake up from it; for the girl had been a good actress; and the mother, though he had always felt a little uncomfortable with her, had simulated the manners of a lady, and his refined tastes never had been shocked; at least never with force enough to break the spell of the daughter's influence. Fancy what this revelation was to him; the woman, in her transport of anger, and in her despair of further help from him, tearing away their flimsy hypocrisies, and revealing their disgusting meanness. It all seemed hideous raving to St. John, till she thrust into his hand the letter that the girl had left. Then the sight of the handwriting that had always given him such emotions, and the cruel words, made an end of his dream, and he was quite awake." "What did she write?" asked Missy. "That he has not told me. He cannot seem to bring himself to speak the words. But I gather from him, it was a vehement protestation of what she felt for her old lover, and the contempt in which she held the poor boy, and perhaps some rude defiance of her mother. St. John, I think, could hardly have spoken many words during the interview. He emptied his pockets, poor boy, and left the wretched woman silent with amazement. She may well have repented of her reckless speech--how much she might have got out of him, if she had still played the hypocrite. He came down the stairs which half an hour before he had mounted, weak, like a person after months of illness. When he got into the carriage, his eyes fell on some lovely flowers which he had brought for her, and the sight and scent of them seemed to make clear the horrible reality. I think he really cannot tell what he did with the rest of the day. He told the man to drive to the Park, and there he wandered about, no doubt, for hours. I am sure he has not tasted food since morning. It must result in a terrible illness. How did he look, Missy, when he came in from the beach?" Missy evaded; and her heart smote her that she had not brought the poor boy to his mother, instead of turning him away from the only chance of comfort. "Shall I go and see?" she said. And going softly into the hall, she stood outside the door of his room and listened. "It is all quiet," she said, coming back. "Perhaps he has fallen asleep. He looked utterly worn out when he came in." Then she crept up beside her mother, and pulling a shawl about her, they sat talking, hand in hand, till the stars grew pale, and the chilly dawn broke. CHAPTER III. THE FIRST SERMON.