There was something very touching in the contrast between that wakeful, anxious, forlorn woman, and the slumber of the unconscious boy. And in that moment, what breast upon which the light of Christian pity--of natural affection, had ever dawned, would, even supposing the world’s judgment were true, have recalled Catherine’s reputed error? There is so divine a holiness in the love of a mother, that no matter how the tie that binds her to the child was formed, she becomes, as it were, consecrated and sacred; and the past is forgotten, and the world and its harsh verdicts swept away, when that love alone is visible; and the God, who watches over the little one, sheds His smile over the human deputy, in whose tenderness there breathes His own! “You will be kind to him--will you not?” said Mrs. Morton; and the appeal was made with that trustful, almost cheerful tone which implies, ‘Who would not be kind to a thing so fair and helpless?’ “He is very sensitive and very docile; you will never have occasion to say a hard word to him--never! you have children of your own, brother.” “He is a beautiful boy--beautiful. I will be a father to him!” As he spoke,--the recollection of his wife--sour, querulous, austere--came over him, but he said to himself, “She must take to such a child,--women always take to beauty.” He bent down and gently pressed his lips to Sidney’s forehead: Mrs. Morton replaced the shawl, and drew her brother to the other end of the room. “And now,” she said, colouring as she spoke, “I must see your wife, brother: there is so much to say about a child that only a woman will recollect. Is she very good-tempered and kind, your wife? You know I never saw her; you married after--after I left.” “She is a very worthy woman,” said Mr. Morton, clearing his throat, “and brought me some money; she has a will of her own, as most women have; but that’s neither here nor there--she is a good wife as wives go; and prudent and painstaking--I don’t know what I should do without her.” “Brother, I have one favour to request--a great favour.” “Anything I can do in the way of money?” “It has nothing to do with money. I can’t live long--don’t shake your head--I can’t live long. I have no fear for Philip, he has so much spirit--such strength of character--but that child! I cannot bear to leave him altogether; let me stay in this town--I can lodge anywhere; but to see him sometimes--to know I shall be in reach if he is ill--let me stay here--let me die here!” “You must not talk so sadly--you are young yet--younger than I am--I don’t think of dying.” “Heaven forbid! but--” “Well--well,” interrupted Mr. Morton, who began to fear his feelings would hurry him into some promise which his wife would not suffer him to keep; “you shall talk to Margaret,--that is Mrs. Morton--I will get her to see you--yes, I think I can contrive that; and if you can arrange with her to stay,--but you see, as she brought the money, and is a very particular woman--”